


Taken

by playswithworms



Series: Protectobot Beginnings [24]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cybertronian equivalent of non-con of a minor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, cuddlepile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:26:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playswithworms/pseuds/playswithworms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First Aid is stubborn, everyone is worried, the Aerialbots try to help, and the Protectobots deal with things in their own way.  Possible triggery content, please read warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for angst, possible triggery material - strongly implied, non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor. First published February 2010.

Groove was furious.  It wasn’t obvious at first glance; he was barely moving, but those who knew him well could tell. Every servo and joint was rigid, his armor trembling just visibly.  His hands were clenched and his optics burned fiercely, and there was no mistaking it in his voice.    
    
“You traded his life for mine,” he said to Hot Spot, gritting the words out, nothing like the usual easy rolling rise and fall of his voice.   
    
“I didn’t have a choice.”  Hot Spot’s voice started out steady enough, but slowly rose in volume until he was almost shouting.  “They needed a medic.  They did not need an injured scout for a hostage—you would have slowed them down!  They would have killed you the minute they were out of range.”      
    
Streetwise, watching Hot Spot, feeling the way Groove was blocking him out, couldn’t stand it any longer. “You think he doesn’t know that?  You’re not helping, Groove, he made the only choice he could!  Just drop it ok?  Just drop it.” Streetwise ended almost on a sob.   
    
Blades entered the fray.  “It’s been five orns.  Why are we just standing around here?  We should be out there looking for him!”   
    
“What do you think we’ve been doing?  We’ve looked, everyone’s looked…Primus…”    
    
“They know what they’ve got.  Do you think they’re going to just give him back?  This never should have happened!”   
    
“Quiet!  Just…just be QUIET!”   
    
“We’ll get him back.  We know he’s alive and we’ll get him back.”    
    
“WHAT IF WE DON’T!”  Groove screamed, and then backed away from them all, expression suddenly vulnerable, desperate.  “What if we never…never…get…him….”   
    
“We will.”  Hot Spot.  Quietly.  And then quieter still, a whisper really, but in it was all the power of a cannon blast.  “We. will.”    
    
Groove stared at him a long moment, vents hitching with repressed sobs.  He bowed his head, put his face in his hands, and Hot Spot stepped forward, drew him in.  They were both shaking.  “I’m sorry,” Hot Spot whispered in Groove’s audios.  “I’m sorry.”   
    
Groove shook his head against Hot Spot’s chest. “I don’t know why I’m yelling at you,” he said finally, hoarsely.  “I know exactly whose idea it was.  You never can say no to him.”   
    
“Like you could?” Hot Spot rumbled.  “We know he’s alive,” Hot Spot continued, trying not to sound too much like he was trying to convince himself.  “He’ll be fine.  They need him.”    
    
“We need him more,” Blades mumbled, from where he was standing over Streetwise, who was sitting curled in a miserable ball on the ground, hands over his audios.    
    
Hot Spot sighed and tugged Groove with him to sit on the ground with Streetwise and they all huddled together wearily, quiet while the tumult of emotions echoed through them, sharing grief-anger and Hot Spot’s frantic resolve and the inconsolable yearning to have First Aid back in his place, that silence in their sparks which was the wrong kind of silence, which should have been filled with First Aid’s silence, that deceptively gentle strength.  It left them feeling unbalanced, unsure.  Made them shout at one another when burning terrible broken things came tearing from their vocalizers.  They didn’t like it.  No more of that please, it hurts us, they agreed, squirming closer, pressing as close together as possible, comfort-hope-comfort-pain.    
    
A vocalizer reset itself uncomfortably, somewhere nearby, and they all looked up blinking, to see Silverbolt standing there.  He looked uncertain, not sure what to say. Protectobots, arguing.  Protectobots screaming at one another.  This was a minor little spat by Aerialbot standards—no one had even tried to throw a punch—but witnessing it left his spark pounding as if the air had suddenly given out beneath his wings.  Only two vorns old, even if they'd known First Aid was safe this type of separation would have been hard for them, but they'd been holding together remarkably well up until now.    
    
Silverbolt had watched them huddle together and end their conflict with the sense of planets falling back into orbit, stars aligning and going back to their proper place.  He hesitated to interrupt, on many levels.  He might be making a huge mistake, telling them this…but were he in their armor…he would want to be told.  He hoped he wasn’t about to get them all killed, but negotiations with the Decepticons were getting nowhere despite Prime’s best efforts.  It was a rogue group that had taken First Aid; even the Decepticon high command didn’t know where they were.  Wheeljack, Ironhide, and Mirage had left an orn ago, following some sort of lead, but no one would give them any information about it.    
    
“Skydive was given a message,” he told Hot Spot, who scrambled to his feet with the other three right behind him.      
    
“Message…” Hot Spot gripped hope tightly, gripped Silverbolt fiercely by the arms.   
    
“By a ‘Con who claims to have him.  Ground model.  Skydive didn’t recognize him, but he was alone and well into Autobot territory, and he knew your name.”  A sign that the ‘Con actually had had contact with their missing brother.  There would be very few in the Decepticon ranks that would know Hot Spot by name.  “He wants to meet.  Just you, no one else or everything is off.  At moonset, by the ruins.”  Silverbolt gave him the coordinates.  The area was a warren of half-collapsed tunnels and corroded buildings, just outside the border.  Any number of things could be hidden there.    
    
“Hot Spot, it could very well be a trap,” Silverbolt cautioned, and Hot Spot nodded, expression sharp and calculating.  No fool, was Hot Spot, even in his desperate fear for his brother.    
    
“They’ll never let me go,” Hot Spot said.  Moonset was a mere four breems away.  The smaller of Cybertron's two moons had already set; the larger was a dim red orb, glowing with reflected light from Cybertron, just beginning to graze the horizon.  They would need to leave now, no time for discussion, going through the proper channels, taking the proper precautions.      
    
“I know.  We haven’t told anyone else,” Silverbolt said.  “Whatever you want to do, we’ll help.”  He could feel Slingshot pushing at him impatiently again from where he was patrolling, just out of sight but not out of sensing.  Forget help, he was ready to go in with all guns blazing.  Silverbolt sent calm, patience.  //This has to be Hot Spot's decision//  Slingshot countered with a burst of wordless frustration, but he would wait.  For now.   
    
The other three Protectobots clustered close behind Hot Spot, expressions shifting between hopeful and rebellious.  None of them liked the idea of Hot Spot going alone.  Not at all.  Hot Spot didn't say anything, just turned and embraced them, pressing his forehead against Groove's for a long moment, brushing a hand over Streetwise, wrapping an arm around Blades' neck and tugging him close.      
    
"Ok," he said simply, turning back to Silverbolt with steady resolve.  "Let's go."     
  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    
Please let this not be the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, Silverbolt thought, in a jumbled but still sparkfelt plea to Primus as he dropped Hot Spot off on the far edge of his patrol route.  Never trust a Decepticon.  They had learned that lesson the hard way, and Hot Spot was smart and strong and he could take care of himself, but Silverbolt would never forgive himself if this all went wrong.    
    
The coordinates the ‘Con had given Skydive were not far.  Hot Spot could drive from here.  Silverbolt and Slingshot (and Air Raid and Skydive and Fireflight, who thought he didn’t know they were lurking just out of sensor range) would wait for his comm. signal, ready to go in with all guns firing if needed.   
    
“Be careful,” Silverbolt said, gripping Hot Spot tightly by the shoulders.  "Some of the roads may be rusted out, and watch out for automatic defenses, a few could still be functioning."  Hot Spot nodded, forbearing to mention that safely navigating dangerous ground terrain was much more his area of expertise than Silverbolt's.  Hot Spot was tense in his grasp, shivering faintly like a cyberhound about to be released to the hunt.  Silverbolt squeezed his shoulders one last time and then released him reluctantly.  Hot Spot's battle mask was up, but he gave Silverbolt a quick and seeming confident gleam of his optics before transforming and heading across the rickety old bridge that let to the ruins.  Silverbolt watched him go, while Slingshot paced impatiently behind him.  It shouldn't take long, whatever happened.    
    
//One breem.  Then I'm going in// Slingshot sent, powering up his thrusters.   
    
//Two.  Give him two at least//   
    
//One and a half//   
    
//Deal//   
  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    
Hot Spot trundled forward over the uneven roads in his alt mode as far as he could, the surface crunching and crumbling unpleasantly beneath his wheels.  He reached a place where sections of collapsed roadway made further travel in alt mode impossible, so he transformed to cautiously walk the rest of the way to the specified coordinates, wondering what price the Decepticon would demand for First Aid's life, wondering how far he would go to pay it…Hot Spot glanced up from the broken roadway and stopped abruptly as if caught in a magnetic beam.  It was an illusion.  Not real, it couldn't be.  Not First Aid kneeling quietly by the side of the road, wrists and legs bound, blindfolded with a length of polyflex wrapped around his helm.  There was no change in the faint glimmering in the gestalt bond that had been the only reassurance First Aid was alive for nearly five orns.  Only calm, only quiet, and the sparkwrenchingly familiar shape so impossibly  _there_.      
    
Hot Spot knelt himself in front of the illusion, removed the blindfold, and First Aid said, “Hot Spot,” in a voice only faintly surprised, his visor gleaming soft blue.   
    
“You were expecting someone else?” Hot Spot asked him, in a calm reasonable voice that was also an illusion.   
    
“Death, actually,” First Aid replied, tilting his head up so he could see Hot Spot better.   
    
“I’m better than death, yes?”   
    
First Aid nodded solemnly. “Much better.”  The faint glimmering in the bond that was First Aid flared to life suddenly, and Hot Spot's spark leaped in his chest with a joy so intense it felt like pain as First Aid was suddenly, irrefutably real, not trick, not illusion,  _real,_ solid red-and-white shape as familiar as his own armor, beloved andsafe in his arms.   
           
Time skipped and blurred from there.  The next thing Hot Spot clearly remembered was trying to hand First Aid to Silverbolt and telling Silverbolt over and over “get him out of here, get him back,” only he couldn’t seem to let go of First Aid, and First Aid was whispering in his audios, “I’m ok, it’s alright, Hot Spot, I’m ok, shhh, calm down, it’s alright now.”   
    
“I’m fine, Aid,” Hot Spot said, in his far-too-calm voice, completely failing to loosen his death grip on First Aid.   
    
“Here, let Slingshot take him.  I’ll carry you and we’ll get you both back together,” Silverbolt tried to get through his friend.  “Hot Spot?  Are you hearing me?”   
    
“You’re kind of hurting me, Hot Spot,” First Aid said softly.  “Can you loosen up a little?”    
    
Hot Spot immediately let go of First Aid, looking horrified, and First Aid wrapped both of his own arms around him.  “Stop that!  It was just a little tight, I’m fine.”  Hot Spot’s arms rose again to hug First Aid, loosely this time, before he pulled away and let Slingshot gather First Aid up.    
    
“I’ll take good care of him, don’t worry,” Slingshot said, and Hot Spot nodded.  “Thank you, Slingshot, Silverbolt.  Thank you.”    
    
Silverbolt made sure Hot Spot was secure. “You’ve got him, Hot Spot.  It looks like he’s all in one piece too."  Silverbolt laughed a little incredulously.  After all of the searching and worrying, and just like that, a little walk in the ruins, they had him back.  "You can freak out now if you want.”    
    
Hot Spot let out a shaky laugh at that.  “I  _am_  freaking out.  Can’t you tell?”    
    
“Pathetic.  You call this a freak out?  I’ll have to give you lessons."  Silverbolt paused to ping the watchtower.  “We’ll be in comm. range soon.”   
    
“They already know,” Hot Spot said, and now Silverbolt could feel him shivering, reaction and reality setting in at last, and there was a buzz-zing of the Protectobot gestalt bond at full tilt, just on the edge of his perception.     
    
//You've got him?// Skydive and Fireflight demanded, mental voices overlapping.   
    
//I've got him// Slingshot sent, before Silverbolt could reply, as proud as if he'd fought his way through a wing of Seekers to rescue First Aid singlehandedly.  //He's fine//   
    
//Hot  _damn!_ //    
    
Silverbolt could hear Air Raid's engines as he whooped and made several celebratory barrel rolls, and Fireflight giggling as he tried to follow Air Raid's flight path.  Skydive sent reassurance before Silverbolt could start to worry.  //Plenty of altitude, they're fine.  I'll keep an optic on him//      
    
The other three Protectobots met them at the landing pad at a dead run.  Hot Spot grabbed them before they could get to First Aid.  “Easy.  Take it easy.  No pummeling.”  They slowed, approaching First Aid with exaggerated caution, until First Aid laughed at them and pounced.  They tumbled into an ecstatic pile on the ground until Ratchet waded in, shouting threats, to haul First Aid to the medbay.  Silverbolt was startled by First Aid’s expression (trepidation maybe?) when he saw Ratchet.  The other four Protectobots seemed to have sensed something, too; Silverbolt could almost see the ripple of concern go through them as they looked at First Aid in quick succession.  It was a brief moment, less than a klik, and then Ratchet was giving First Aid his usual dressing down he reserved for mechs that put themselves in danger and scared him sparkless.  First Aid was attempting to look properly contrite, but there was a tiny, patient smile lurking, and Silverbolt decided he must have been imagining things.   
    
Silverbolt and Slingshot headed back to the rec room to refuel and spread the good news (Slingshot's part in the whole affair seemed to be growing more extensive with every retelling, Silverbolt noted with amusement). Fireflight joined them later to report that Ratchet had released First Aid from the medbay with no major damages and orders to get some rest.  The Protectobots were in their quarters with Optimus, and Prowl had holed himself up in the medbay with Ratchet.  Silverbolt winced and got up from their table to start heading that way.  Might as well go face the music.  No sooner than he started, he got the comm. from Prowl.    
    
 _Silverbolt?_      
    
 _Yes, sir?_    
    
 _Report to medbay, immediately._    
    
 _On my way, sir._    
    
Oh yeah.  He was in it deep this time, but Silverbolt couldn't make himself regret it.  When he got to the medbay Prowl and Ratchet's voices filtered clearly through the cracked open door to Ratchet’s office.  Silverbolt stood outside, not meaning to eavesdrop, but they were talking about First Aid, and Silverbolt remembered that brief apprehensive expression he'd noticed earlier.     
    
“So are you saying you think he’s been hacked?”  Prowl asked.   
    
“No!  Nothing like that, no," Ratchet was quick to reassure him.  "His CPU scan was clean.  I’m just saying there’s something else going on.  He was twitchy as a glitch mouse in a trap when I examined him.”   
    
"But you said there were no signs of major damage, and his report to me didn't indicate mistreatment.  Could he have been lying?"     
    
“They weren't exactly gentle with him."  Ratchet's voice was low growl.  Silverbolt felt his fists clench as he leaned closer to the door.  If those fraggers had hurt First Aid....  "But yes, no major damages, nothing that won't heal on its own now that he's got some real fuel in him instead of whatever slag they were subsisting on.  He was just being...evasive."  Ratchet sighed.  "I don't know, maybe I'm overreacting."   
    
"There are methods that don't leave detectable signs, but they wouldn't have a reason to torture him for information," Prowl said dispassionately.  "He'd be more valuable to them as a medic."  Silverbolt had to turn and pace the length of the medbay for a moment.   _Torture._   First Aid was still a sparkling.  Even the Decepticons wouldn't...Silverbolt tried to convince himself, didn't want to even consider the possibility, but he knew firsthand there were those in Decepticon ranks that were certainly capable of such things.  And this was a rogue group, operating outside even what limited conventions of warfare the Decepticons claimed to follow.   
    
“I could see them coercing him maybe," Ratchet was saying when he returned to listen at the door.  "Even if it wasn’t a direct hack, they might be holding someone else hostage or in danger to try to force him to sabotage base security.”   
    
Silverbolt snorted silently at that.  First Aid sabotaging the base?  That he’d believe when Pit froze over.  Sneaking injured Decepticons medical supplies…that he might almost believe.  If a mech was in need, First Aid would treat them regardless of faction if he could, except he knew First Aid would never deliberately put his teammates or other Autobots at risk to do so.     
    
“He didn’t know why they let him go?” Prowl asked.   
    
“No.  He...thought he was being executed when he was blindfolded.”   
    
“Primus.”  Prowl sounded as close to appalled as Silverbolt had ever heard him.  Silverbolt forgave him for earlier, when he'd been talking so calmly about the possibility of First Aid being tortured.    
    
There was silence for awhile, and Silverbolt moved a step closer to the door.   
    
“What do you recommend?”  Prowl said finally.    
    
“Wheeljack and Ironhide are on their way back—they’re due to arrive in half an orn.  First Aid might be more willing to open up to Wheeljack."  Silverbolt nodded a little to himself, thinking of the engineer who might as well be their creator.  No matter how badly he screwed things up, he knew he could always go to Wheeljack.  Or Optimus, for when he  _really_  screwed up.  "We could try having Smokescreen talk to him in the meantime, but I think being with his teammates is probably the best thing for him right now.  They won’t let him keep any secrets for long.  I honestly don’t think he’s any sort of security risk, but we’ll keep a close optic on him, and I’m sure Silverbolt will help in that regard.  Won’t you, Silverbolt.”   
    
Silverbolt jumped guiltily, and then jumped again as a second voice behind him said, “Yes, I’m sure we can count on you, can't we.”   
    
Optimus.  How the Pit could a mech that big come up behind him so quietly, Silverbolt wondered, as he sheepishly pushed open the door.    
    
“Come in and join us,” Prowl said.  Optimus casually took a seat across from Prowl and Ratchet, but Silverbolt remained standing, trying not to fidget as Prowl looked him over.  “Speaking of security risks…you should have reported that communication immediately.”   
    
Silverbolt forced himself to meet Prowl’s optics squarely.  “I felt we had to act quickly or lose the chance, sir.  It would have taken time to plot out a course of action, time we didn’t have, so I made what I thought was the best choice.  I would never betray the Autobots.  Sir.  Neither would the Protectobots.  Neither would First Aid,” he finished with a hint of accusation in his voice.    
    
“We’re not accusing him of anything, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, leaning forward.  “We’re just concerned.  Being new construction is not necessarily protection against some of the Decepticons’…harsher methods, as well you know.”    
    
Silverbolt nodded stiffly, and Optimus gave him a searching look.    
    
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed you didn’t tell us, that you didn’t trust that we would do everything in our power to get First Aid back, but given the circumstances…I can understand the choice you made.  I just had to talk Hot Spot out of putting himself and his team on extra clean-up detail for the next three orns.  What sort of punishment do you think I should talk you out of?”  Silverbolt glanced at Prowl, who was frowning at Optimus, but made no protest.   
    
Silverbolt thought it over.  He'd taken a very big risk.  His fuel still wanted to run cold when he thought of how differently it could have all turned out.  “Ah…three orns in the brig?”  He winced inwardly, but if he could keep the rest of his teammates out of it, all the better.    
    
“Seems rather harsh,” Optimus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.   
    
“We’re older, more experienced.  The Protectobots were under a lot of strain and were probably not thinking clearly, but we should have known better.”    
    
“You’re not making this easy, Silverbolt,” Optimus said, voice stern, but Silverbolt could see his optics glinting in amusement.  Oh! How dense could he be?    
    
“It did work though,” Silverbolt pointed out, and Optimus suppressed a smile as the Aerialbot commander caught on at last.  “We got First Aid back, and no one was damaged.”  Silverbolt put on his best innocent contrite look.  “We won’t ever do it again.”    
    
Optimus laughed.  “Very well, you’re off the hook for now, but I expect exemplary behavior from  _all_ of you for the next…oh say, ten orns.  Then you’re free to go back to your usual shenanigans, but you will, of course, be at the risk of Prowl and Ironhide's tender mercies.  Now have a seat."  Optimus tapped the stool next to him with one foot.  "I want your input here, too.”   
    
“What were your impressions, Optimus?”  Ratchet asked.   
    
“He seemed tired, of course, but other than that...cheerful, wants to go back on duty next shift, apologized for the trouble and worry.  Wanted to check my oil pressure and coolant levels."  They all shared amused smiles.  "All of them have held up admirably through this whole ordeal, but yes.  I did get the impression…”  Optimus let his voice trail off.  “I didn’t stay long; they obviously just needed some time together.”   
    
“Sir, if you sensed something was wrong, there’s no doubt the rest of the Protectobots know it, too,” Silverbolt said confidently.  “They know how he works.  My guess is that jumping in right now and trying to fix things without knowing exactly what’s going on will do a lot more harm than good.  Just give them some time.”   
    
“Prowl?” Optimus asked, looking at his second in command.   
    
“Time.  I suppose I can give them time.  I can put them on light duty rotation.”   
    
Silverbolt didn’t quite repress his snort in time, and Optimus looked at him in amusement.  “You’re right, it’ll be a hard sell,” Optimus said, followed by a laugh.  “How is it all of our meetings about the Protectobots turn into discussions of how to keep them from working themselves into stasis lock?”   
    
“You have meetings about them?”  Silverbolt asked.   
    
“Not as many as we do about you guys,” Ratchet smirked.  “Except in Aerialbot meetings we’re usually discussing how we can prevent you from working  _us_  into stasis lock.”   
    
“Hey!” Silverbolt protested, “I thought we agreed, no rubbing it in.”   
    
Optimus chuckled, amused again.  He was in a good mood, Silverbolt thought.  Happy they had First Aid back safe and (hopefully) sound.  He knew Optimus had been deeply troubled when the negotiations had reached a dead end, and not only because of the potential strategic loss of a junior medic and the likely incapacitation of a gestalt team.  Optimus had always taken a personal interest in the members of both gestalt teams—of course, it was hard not to have a soft spot for First Aid, but Silverbolt knew he would have been the same had it been any one of them.  Any of the Autobots, for that matter.      
    
Optimus was looking at him, still smiling, but a little thoughtful.  “It’s never easy, being the first one.”  Silverbolt tilted his head, inquiring.  “The Protectobots, while certainly unique in their…precociousness, have also reaped the benefits of all of your mistakes, and in many ways their path has been easier because you walked it before them.  I don’t think any of us fully realized the difficulty of the task we asked of you, to be a gestalt leader with no blueprint, no training manual of how such a thing could be done, but you paved the way down an unknown road.  You should be proud, of yourself, of your team, and of what you have become.”     
    
Silverbolt couldn’t quite meet Optimus’ gaze as he tried very hard not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat at the praise.  He risked quick glances at Prowl and Ratchet, and they were both nodding in agreement, Ratchet smiling slightly, Prowl serious, but the rare approval in his expression made Silverbolt suddenly hold his head up higher and straighten his shoulders where he sat.  He wanted to say something to Optimus, something about how much his unwavering support and belief in them had meant, but his vocalizer would not cooperate.  The best he could manage was a slightly squeaky and inadequate, “Thank you.  Thank you, sir,” as he got up and exited Ratchet’s office with as much dignity as he could manage, glowing inwardly with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment.    
  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for angst, possible triggery content - strongly implied non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor.

Over the next few cycles Silverbolt hung out near Hot Spot and the Protectobots as much as his duty shifts would allow.  As predicted, getting them to work light duty was easier said than done.  First Aid was adamant about going back to work after a single cycle off, but Silverbolt did at least manage to talk Hot Spot out of taking extra shifts to make up for the ones other mechs had covered when they were searching for First Aid.  First Aid seemed…fine.  A little subdued perhaps, but he wasn’t the loud and raucous type to begin with.  But every now and then he would catch Hot Spot looking at First Aid, and First Aid not meeting his gaze, suddenly becoming very busy somewhere else…with Hot Spot frowning after him.  He finally got Hot Spot to slow down long enough to sit with him for a cube of energon, so he could ask him about it.    
    
“I don’t know, Silverbolt," Hot Spot said, sighing.  He looked tired.  As a gestalt commander you were always going to be losing recharge over one teammate or another—that was just part of the deal. Silverbolt doubted the other Autobots would ever guess it was the quiet, unassuming First Aid, rather than Blades or Streetwise, that caused Hot Spot the most lost rest.  Nothing that a workload twice that of the average mech wouldn't cure, Silverbolt thought with a bit of fond exasperation, though normally Hot Spot seemed to thrive on it.  "He won’t give us details; he just says it wasn’t that bad and that he’s fine.”   
    
“Are you saying you think he could be…lying to you?”    
    
Hot Spot was quiet, swirling his cube of energon a little, trying to wrap his processor around the idea.  To outright lie to a gestaltmate.  It was possible he supposed.  Kind of pointless, though, in the long run.    
    
“I’m saying…I think someone could have ripped both of his arms off and he’d still say it wasn’t that bad and that he was fine.”  Hot Spot shook his head and rubbed at his optic ridge.  “He’s not recharging more than a joor at a time.  He’s pulling away from us even when he’s with us.  Even Groove.  Especially Groove, which isn’t right at all.  He’s not fine, ‘Bolt.”  Hot Spot looked up and gave Silverbolt a half-sparked excuse for a smile.  “He’s not fine.”    
    
Silverbolt sighed, wishing not for the first time that he had answers for Hot Spot, something that would make it all right, that would make stubborn gestalt members trying so hard to prove they were ok spill their guts already.  Paving the way.  Despite what Optimus had said he still didn't feel like he was setting much of an example.  He thought of the idea he had come up with earlier, probably several decaspans away from brilliant, but it was the best he could do.  There were no real secrets in a gestalt, not for long.   
    
“Grapple put in a request to have Defensor and Superion reposition the north bridge," he told Hot Spot.  "He thinks if we can get it in place it can be shored up without having to rebuild entire support structure.  Do you think your team is up for it?  It’s not essential.  Grapple would be ok with postponing if you’re not ready.”    
    
Silverbolt repressed an amused smile at the way Hot Spot perked up at the thought of (oh joy!) bridge moving, something else to do, a useful task someone needed him for.  Not like he didn’t have a thousand useful tasks already pending on his jam-packed schedule.  “No, no, we can do it,” Hot Spot said eagerly.  “When are all of your guys available?”     
    
They compared schedules, Hot Spot shuffled a few things around with his effortless and, Silverbolt privately thought, slightly uncanny powers of organization, and they informed Grapple both teams would be at the bridge early the next cycle.        
    
Hound commed in a request for assistance just before their meeting time, so Silverbolt ended up being slightly late, although still before the rest of his team.  Hound’s request turned out to be none other than the Decepticon that had set up the meeting with Hot Spot, the one Skydive had spoken to.  He’d been sneaking along the far edge of the ruins where it bordered the other end of the base, where he had the misfortune (for him anyway) to be discovered and captured by Hound on his border patrol.  Silverbolt transported the Decepticon to the brig so Hound could continue his patrol.  The 'Con had been offline, unfortunately, or else Silverbolt would have had a few questions.  Maybe dropped the slagger from varying heights, depending on the answers.  He’d need to let Prowl know this ‘Con had been involved in First Aid's return, but he was running late so he filed it away for later and headed to the damaged bridge.   
    
The Protectobots were already there, punctual as usual.  There was something about the way they were standing, First Aid turned away, just a little, Hot Spot tense, in a way that was different from his usual restless energy.  It made Silverbolt slow and pause before he got to them.  Streetwise was the only one who noticed his arrival, but the glance he spared him was distracted, anxious, nothing like his usual mischievous grin.   
    
“I am getting very tired of this, Aid,” Hot Spot’s voice carried clearly.  “You can’t keep insisting everything is fine when it’s obviously not.  I’m worried to deactivation and so are your brothers.”   
    
First Aid said nothing.  His expression was calm as he looked down at the ground, only a slight wrinkling of the plates of his forehead and the way his hands were tightly curled at his sides betraying any agitation.  Hot Spot’s face was not calm at all, and his hands moved a little as First Aid stood there silently, grasping air and shaking it as if he wanted to take First Aid by the shoulders and shake sense into him but couldn’t quite do it.    
    
Silverbolt wondered uneasily if he was about to witness a second Protectobot yellfest (and he really should find a way to make Hot Spot relax.  No one had managed it yet, but there had to be a way. Maybe if he figured out the trick of it first, himself, that would help) but Grapple arrived, and then the rest of the Aerialbots.  First Aid moved a little away to greet Fireflight and Air Raid, who asked him how he was doing (“Fine,” he told them, smiling warmly, only it seemed to Silverbolt that he was hiding from his own team, and Hot Spot gave Silverbolt an unhappy glance, lips tight-pressed) and then they all turned to listen to Grapple as he explained exactly what he wanted them to do.    
    
Silverbolt gave the command and transformed, as he was subsumed in the familiar mind of Superion.  Superion turned, and the tiny thread of thought that had once called itself Silverbolt grinned somewhere, at Superion’s eagerness to greet his friend, his fellow gestalt being.  It had been quite awhile since Superion and Defensor had had a chance to work or fight or train together.  They never got a chance to just…be…together.  Silverbolt sometimes got the feeling they, both of them, all of them, might like to, but he had never quite gotten around to asking Hot Spot about it.  What did two giant gestalts do for fun, anyway?  And knowing Defensor, he was likely no better at relaxing than any of his component parts.   
    
Defensor formed.  Superion did not smile, that wasn’t in his programming, but his optics gleamed brighter as he moved forward to greet the other gestalt.  He paused as Defensor seemed to…struggle…with himself, and then Defensor separated, not with his usual efficient and orderly detaching of components, but a chaotic tumble that left Protectobots scattered and blinking and, in Blade’s case, wedged half standing on his helm with both legs kicking wildly.  Hot Spot lay on his back for a moment, blinking at the sky, and then rolled to his feet and stomped over to First Aid, who was still sitting on the ground watching him apprehensively.    
    
“I’ve had ENOUGH of this!  It ends now. You are going to tell me WHAT is going on—“   
    
First Aid…flattened slightly, as Hot Spot stalked up to him.  He ducked his head, raising his shoulders almost imperceptibly as if waiting for a blow in something that was not quite a cringe.    
    
It was enough to stop Hot Spot dead in his tracks.     
    
“Aid…”  he said, voice cracking, expression horrified as he dropped to his knees.  The other three were frozen in place, Blades having unscrambled himself enough to sit staring at them in astonishment.  “You’re… _afraid_  of me—”   
    
First Aid was a blur as he launched himself at Hot Spot, tackling him.  “No…NO.   _Never_ ,” he whispered fiercely into Hot Spot’s audios.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” First Aid gripped Hot Spot tightly, trying to bury his head in his shoulder and sobbing a few times.   
    
Groove and Streetwise stumbled to their feet, giving Blades a hand up.  They moved close to the other two, where First Aid appeared to be trying to dig himself into Hot Spot's chassis.  Superion separated into his components, and the Aerialbots stood a little to the side watching in concern with Grapple, who kept looking at the Protectobots and then back at Silverbolt questioningly.   
    
“Shhh…shhh…it’s ok.”  Hot Spot moved finally, curling around First Aid and running a soothing hand over his back armor. “I’m just so worried, Aid.  We can’t go on like this.”   
    
First Aid stilled, head half burrowed under Hot Spot's arm.  He nodded slightly, after awhile, not looking up.  “I know,” he whispered. “I know, but Hot Spot…I just…I don’t know…I can’t—” his voice cracked and wavered, and he took a deep intake of air.  “I can’t tell you…”   
    
“Why?  Why can’t you tell us?”  Groove asked softly, rubbing First Aid on his back in little circles.    
    
“It will hurt you.  It will hurt you too much.”   
    
“It hurts us now, Aid, you know that,” Groove told him sadly.  “When you wall us out like this, it hurts us more.”  First Aid sobbed again, clenching his hands in Hot Spot’s armor.    
    
“Just tell us.  We can handle it,” Blades said, encouraging.    
    
“It’s like surgery,” Streetwise added.  “You’ll have to hurt us to heal us.”  First Aid raised his head at that, turning it to look at Streetwise.  He thought that over, and they all waited, patient, until First Aid gave a faint nod.  Hot Spot sighed shakily and stood, pulling First Aid up with him.    
    
“I messed up the bridge,” First Aid said, face miserable.  Grapple stepped forward from where he had been shifting uneasily next to the Aerialbots.    
    
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, voice artificially cheerful.  “It'll wait, no reason we have to do it right now.  Who needs another bridge anyway.  I was just doing it for practice more than anything.  We can do it whenever you’re feeling better.  Or if it never gets done, that’s ok, too.  No problem.  Not that I don’t appreciate your help—”    
    
“Off duty,” Silverbolt interrupted.   
    
“What?” Hot Spot asked.   
    
“All of you.  I’ll clear it with Optimus.  We’ll cover your regular duty shifts as long as you need.”  Hot Spot opened his mouth as if to protest, and Silverbolt growled, “No arguing.  How many times have you covered for us?  It’s our turn.”   
    
Hot Spot shook his head.  “I’m not arguing.  Thank you, Silverbolt…just…thank you.  Grapple, I apologize.  We’ll contact you as soon as we’re functioning to full capacity again.”   
    
“No rush, Hot Spot, as I said, there’s no rush.  I’m sure you’ll get it all worked out.  Aw, now, don’t look so sad,” he said to First Aid, who continued to look guilt-ridden.  “Whatever’s eating at you, kid, just know we’re all so glad to have you back.  Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”   
    
Silverbolt gave First Aid his best encouraging smile and was rewarded by a tiny lift of his head and almost-smile in return, although First Aid’s face kept its worried, troubled expression as Hot Spot and the rest of his brothers led him away.  Whatever had happened to him…it wasn’t good, to make his face look like that.  Silverbolt had been hoping the problem would work itself out, that it was just the readjustment of the gestalt bond after the ordeal of being separated for so long while they were still so young, or maybe one of First Aid’s quirks, something distressing for him, but nothing too serious.    
    
Torture, he thought grimly.  Or some sort of twisted mind game.  First Aid had a good processor in that helm of his, but they were called Decepticons for a reason.   
    
“Do you think I should talk to him?” Slingshot wondered, unconsciously following his commander’s plane of thought.  Slingshot knew all about Decepticon mind games.  The Protectobots were aware of some of it, but they'd never really talked about the details.  Slingshot had come a long way to offer to talk about it like that, Silverbolt couldn't help thinking, though First Aid would be the last one to judge him for any of it.        
    
“Maybe later, Slingshot,” Silverbolt advised.  "We still don't know what all this is about.  When we do...we can always rip apart whoever hurt him.”  Silverbolt gave his brother a slightly feral grin, which Slingshot returned.      
    
“Better go enjoy yourselves while you can," Silverbolt told them all.  "We’re on double duty until the Protectobots are back.  I need to get Optimus up to speed and then I’ll join you later.”   
    
Slingshot made a face at this, but did not protest, and he and Air Raid and Skydive went off to cause whatever mayhem they could in what remained of their free time.  Fireflight came over and leaned against Silverbolt, absently, not seeming to notice the other three had left without him.    
    
Silverbolt put an arm around him and squeezed.  “You ok, ‘Flight?”   
    
Fireflight nodded, not answering, still leaning.  He appeared to be thinking very hard about something.    
    
“What’s going on in your processor?  I can hear all of your programs running,” Silverbolt asked.   
    
“Do you think he would like that pistol Air Raid gave me?  The one with its own invisibility shield generator?”    
    
“Do I think who would like it?”   
    
Fireflight blinked at him as if it was obvious.  “First Aid.”   
    
“Oh!  Well…it’s a nice thought, Fireflight, but First Aid isn’t really into weapons.  Besides, you left it with the generator on.  We’ll have to wait until it runs out of juice to find it again.”    
    
“Oh yeah.”  Fireflight looked downcast.   
    
“Tell you what, once I talk to Optimus, we can go through your stuff and see what we can find that might cheer First Aid up.”   
    
Fireflight beamed at that, letting his happiness to be with Silverbolt, mixed together with concern for First Aid and resentment for the other three leaving without even asking if he wanted to come (yes he had noticed, thank-you-very-much) flow freely through their bond.  Silverbolt squeezed him again affectionately.  Always one you lost recharge over, he thought, but for now they were all together and all safe, and he would treasure it while he could.   
  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    
Back in the Protectobot quarters, the other four Protectobots huddled close around First Aid, battering at his walls with their love and their worry.  Slowly, haltingly, he let them fall, sharing memories of his capture and captivity.  It wasn’t so bad at first, that much of what he had told them was true.  First Aid had been worried, for Groove who had been injured, for the rest of his brothers, but not afraid, not for himself.  The Decepticons had been rough, but nothing excessive. Just some shoving (the other four bristled, but Aid gave them the mental equivalent of rolling his optics  //I’ve had worse training with Ironhide, really guys//), taunting which faded quickly in the face of First Aid’s honest incomprehension.   
    
The ragtag group of rogue Decepticons had been on their own for quite some time.  They had many untreated injuries, a few potentially deactivating.  Once First Aid started in with fixing the worst of them, treating these Decepticon patients with the same gentle, warm, concern that he used with everyone, their hostility quickly turned to a sort of disbelieving, slightly baffled gratefulness.  First Aid, though missing his brothers with an emptiness that was like a constant, hurting wail deep inside him, had been intrigued by the challenge working on the unfamiliar Decepticon frame models and systems, felt a deep satisfaction at helping them, though he was a bit frustrated by his lack of adequate supplies.  He pulled much of what he needed from his own redundant systems, using his own wiring and components to fix the Decepticons, an act that seemed to confuse them greatly.    
    
//They didn’t know what to make of you, did they?// came Streetwise’s amused, affectionate thought.   
    
Blades added //I can’t believe you didn’t even try to get away.  You weren’t even thinking about it!//   
    
 _//_ They needed help// came First Aid’s slightly defensive answer and then Hot Spot firmly guided them back to task.  A new Decepticon, unfamiliar, joined the group and here First Aid tried to balk, to turn back, but his gestaltmates stood behind him like a solid fortress, forward, they said, placing invisible hands at his back, sending wave after wave of support and love.    
    
//Go forward, for all of us, please, if you love us// and, with a final broken cry of anguish and strength, he did.   
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

    
Silverbolt looked up from Fireflight’s shiny organic rock collection, the roil of emotions through the gestalt bond alerting him even before Slingshot and Air Raid strode through the door to their quarters, faces set.  Air Raid met his gaze, something in his optics suddenly very young and lost, and Silverbolt responded almost instinctively to that expression, rising and wrapping arms around him while Slingshot stood and glared around their quarters as if looking for something to tear apart.  Fireflight shoved his rocks behind him, just in case.     
    
Skydive wandered through the door from wherever he'd been, following the sudden turmoil in the bond.  "What the Pit, guys?" he asked, looking from Slingshot to where Silverbolt was hugging Air Raid.    
    
Air Raid let his head rest on Silverbolt's shoulder.  "We went to see if we could talk to that 'Con, the one that told us where to find First Aid."  And do something Optimus would not approve of, if the Decepticon had been responsible for anything bad that had happened was the part going unsaid.  Silverbolt couldn't deny the same thought had crossed his processor more than once.    
    
“Silverbolt.  I know what...”  Slingshot broke off for a moment, fists clenching with anger and something else.  A sickened sort of disbelief and horror.  He couldn’t even say it.  Slingshot shook his head and tried again.  “I know,” he said precisely, “what happened to him.”    
  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hot Spot stirred finally, from the clustered pile on the floor where the Protectobot team had finally wept themselves into recharge.  He stared the ceiling for a while, hand moving in a small caress over First Aid’s helm where it was tucked against his side.  Hot Spot drew a deep intake, then carefully extracted himself, gently rolling Groove and First Aid over to drape them across Blades and Streetwise.  Blades unshuttered his optics as Hot Spot stood and Hot Spot met that fiercely burning blue gaze for a few moments in wordless communication, before he slipped out the door to their quarters.  He paused for a moment, watching Silverbolt come out of a half-doze with a guilty start from where he was propped up against the opposite wall, jostling Air Raid, who fell out of his lap and on to the floor with a sleepy grunt.  Hot Spot stared at him, expressionless, and then turned and set off down the corridor at a brisk pace.  Silverbolt scrambled to his feet and waved Air Raid to stay where he was as he set off after Hot Spot.    
    
“Hot Spot,” he called, trying to catch up.  “Slow down.”  Hot Spot was shorter than Silverbolt, but he tended to walk quickly, his team always laughing and trailing behind, calling to him to slow down, and Hot Spot would laugh and turn and wait for them.  Hot Spot turned, but he wasn’t laughing.    
    
“Where’s the Decepticon,” he asked Silverbolt shortly, setting off down the corridor again.  “The one Hound caught.”   
    
“Hot Spot…” Silverbolt said hesitantly, “I don’t think…”   
    
Hot Spot didn’t stop but he gave Silverbolt a look that made him falter and fall a few steps behind.    
    
“How do you even know—” Silverbolt began.   
    
“Nevermind,” Hot Spot interrupted tersely. “I know where to look.”  Silverbolt wondered if he should call for backup.    
    
“Look, maybe we should go for a walk or something.  I know you’re angry...”  Actually, he couldn’t even imagine what Hot Spot was feeling.  After absorbing Slingshot's news he still felt like destroying something, ripping it apart, setting it on fire, throwing something satisfyingly smashable up against a wall.  At the thought of that happening to one of his own gestaltmates…Silverbolt had to stop thinking, because he began to scare himself with his own rage.  He was amazed Hot Spot was still talking coherently.  This was the first time Silverbolt had ever seen the cheerful, enthusiastic Protectobot commander truly angry, and with that cold light in his normally warm red optics…he was frighteningly good at it.    
    
Silverbolt caught up to his friend again as he started to cross the central compound and put a hand on Hot Spot’s shoulder.  Hot Spot whirled, a kind of coiled tension running through his frame, and Silverbolt forced himself not to back away, tried to think of a way to distract him.    
    
“Hot Spot…how’s…how’s he doing?”   
    
Hot Spot looked at him, gaze intense, and laughed once, a short, bitter sound.    
    
“Do you know what that…” Hot Spot searched for a word.  Silverbolt thought he could supply a few appropriate ones, but even now Hot Spot did not say them.  “Do you know,” he started over, vocalizer grinding it out one word at a time, “what...”  Hot Spot couldn't continue.   
     
“Yeah…yeah, Hot Spot,” Silverbolt said softly.  “I know.”   
    
Hot Spot laughed, again with that bitter note.  “Now those songs they sing in the rec room when everyone’s had too much high grade make a lot more sense.”  Silverbolt felt his spark clench in realization and he ached with sudden grief for his friend.  Hot Spot hadn’t even known….Silverbolt was still a youngling himself; his interface systems weren't due to come online for many more vorns, but at least he knew enough...how could it have never  _occurred_  to him to bring up the subject with Hot Spot?    
    
“Hot Spot, it’s…it’s not supposed to be like that,” Silverbolt started, but Hot Spot was striding off already, towards the brig and Silverbolt found himself running to catch up again.  They marched in silence, as Hot Spot unerringly found his way to the cell where the battered Decepticon was being held.  Trailbreaker was on guard duty.  He looked at Hot Spot worriedly, but said nothing as Hot Spot stood in front of the holding cell.    
    
The mech inside had been beaten.  Not from anything they had done.  He had been that way when Hound found him; he'd been easy enough to take down.  Ratchet had obviously treated his injuries, but there were still dents, healing weld marks and patches where the dark blue paint had been completely scraped off.  He cowered when he saw Hot Spot, and moved to the back far corner of the cell to wedge himself against the wall.  Silverbolt wondered what he would do if Hot Spot tried to get into the cell to attack, but, after watching the mech for a long moment, Hot Spot turned himself so he was facing sideways.  He was looking towards the passageway, but Silverbolt could feel his attention focused on the mech in the corner.  The Decepticon cautiously moved out into the open, shooting Silverbolt nervous glances.    
    
“You’re his brother,” he said to Hot Spot in a rasping voice, hands twitching nervously.   
    
Hot Spot nodded.  “Thank you,” he said, apparently addressing the distant wall, and Silverbolt blinked in astonishment.    
    
The Decepticon shook his head, wearily.  “Don’t thank me,” he muttered.  “I don’t deserve thanking.”    
    
“You got him out of there.  You did what you could.”   
    
“It should never have happened.  It’s not the first time, but with a sparkling…Motormaster went too far this time.  He knows that.  We all know that.  I hate him,” the Decepticon said, mildly, as if in casual conversation, and Silverbolt shivered for some reason.  “We were going to leave him, but…we’ve been afraid of him for a long time.  But when he took your brother..." the Decepticon glanced over at Hot Spot.   
    
Hot Spot nodded, still facing the wall.  “We know.”   
    
“So I took your brother and ran.  I told the others I was getting rid of him. No one tried to stop me.  We all know he went too far.  It’s like he…wants to destroy us.  I hate him.”  The mech rubbed one of the healing welds on his arm in a nervous, repetitive action.  He shook his head and whispered something softly to the floor, something which sounded like "I love him."      
    
Silverbolt had been realizing, gradually, who this must be.  He was gestalt.  Something about…how he was.  Something Silverbolt recognized.  Part of a Decepticon gestalt, and there were only three that they knew of.  Menasor.  The Stunticons.  Silverbolt had met them, him, once in battle, but only in his combined form.  He had never met his components on an individual basis, had never known their names.   
    
“He forces you, too…doesn’t he?”  Hot Spot spoke, a sort of dazed realization in his voice, turning at last to look at the mech in the cell.  The Decepticon flinched but looked up to meet Hot Spot’s gaze, and in it Silverbolt could see the same bonds that held together his team, that held together the Protectobots, but twisted, warped and tortured, like a dying star devouring its own core.    
    
Hot Spot turned abruptly and walked out, past Trailbreaker, who gave Silverbolt a troubled look, but Silverbolt didn't have time to pause for him.    
    
When he got outside, running (again) to catch up, Hot Spot seemed to have picked a direction at random.  He stopped to lean one hand against a support column for one of the watchtowers, and as Silverbolt reached him he doubled over, retching a few times.  He shrugged out from under Silverbolt’s concerned hand, and then turned back, pushing his hands and arms against the column as if he were trying to topple it.  He shoved against the column a few times, hard, and then sank forward to rest his helm against the pitted metal.   
    
“He was…he was crying for me, ‘Bolt,” Hot Spot said to the column, voice suddenly young, agonized.  “He was crying for me and I couldn’t hear him.  He was…and I wasn’t there…” Hot Spot’s voice rose.  “I wasn’t…”  Hot Spot began slamming his hands into pitted metal, yelling something incoherent, furious, with each blow.  The column shivered, made an ominous cracking sound, and Silverbolt grabbed Hot Spot’s arms, tried to wrestle him away, probably not the best idea.  Hot Spot was not as big, but he was amazingly strong, and despite being mainly a rescue unit rather than a frontliner, he was better at ground fighting than Silverbolt.  With a powerful roll, Silverbolt was pinned.  He shuttered his optics and resigned himself to being pummeled to scrap.  After a long moment of nothing but the sound Hot Spot’s harsh, gasping air cycles, he cautiously unshuttered his optics to see Hot Spot staring down at him with a look of confusion.    
    
“What are you doing?” Hot Spot asked.   
    
“Waiting for you to hit me.”   
    
“What?!” Hot Spot looked scandalized.  “Why would I want to hit you?”   
    
“You’re angry.”   
    
“Not at you,” Hot Spot snorted, sliding off of Silverbolt and giving him a hand so he could sit up.   
    
“Sometimes it helps to just hit someone,” Silverbolt shrugged, scooting over to lean against the column next to Hot Spot.  It creaked again, and they both looked up at the rickety watchtower it was helping to support.  Hot Spot sighed.    
    
“I’ll fix it,” he murmured, letting his head fall back against the column with a faint thunk.    
    
“Hot Spot…I’m so sorry.  That this happened.  I know there’s nothing…I just want you to know.”   
    
Hot Spot nodded.  “He’s ok,” he said, after a moment, sounding calmer, like himself almost.  Silverbolt made an inquiring sound.   
    
“Not all the way, but he’s coping.  Better than the rest of us actually.  He didn’t want what happened to hurt us, mainly, but for himself...”  Hot Spot shook his head. “Sometimes I really just want to strangle him.”   
    
“First Aid?”  Silverbolt asked, just to make sure, and Hot Spot nodded again.    
    
“I wouldn’t, you know.  I would never…” Hot Spot’s voice crackled suddenly with static, and Silverbolt felt his own vocalizer seize up as well.    
    
“Never,” he agreed roughly.  Never.  To physically hurt one of their gestaltmates like that, never.  And that other thing…Silverbolt’s processor veered away sharply.   
    
Hot Spot lifted his head, as if listening.  “They’re waking up, I should get back.  He’s still in some pain.  I need to get him to Ratchet.”   
    
Silverbolt's spark clenched again at that little bit of information, as he stood and gave Hot Spot a hand to get up.  Hot Spot was quiet as they walked back, Silverbolt shooting him occasional glances.    
    
“Spot…are you…” he began, and Hot Spot looked over at him with a wry almost-smile.    
    
“I’m not ok,” Hot Spot answered, “but…I’m not going to do anything stupid, if that’s what you’re worried about.  First Aid won’t let me.”   
    
"A tyrant," Silverbolt murmured.  "Who would have suspected."  Hot Spot smiled again but did not disagree.    
    
When they arrived back at the Protectobot quarters, Silverbolt was not particularly surprised to find Fireflight, Slingshot, and Skydive now camped out with Air Raid outside the door.  They shifted a little uncomfortably, not sure what to say as Hot Spot stood there.   
    
“I thought you were supposed to be covering our shifts,” Hot Spot said noncommittally.    
    
“Prowl told us he had everything covered,” Skydive answered.  “You guys are on away missions so much anyway…” he trailed off, awkward, remembering just what had happened on their last away mission.    
    
“I’ve got at least three messages from him.  And Prime.  And everyone else.  Wheeljack and Ironhide are due to arrive in a half joor, too.” Hot Spot rubbed at his face, suddenly looking very weary.  “I don’t…I don’t think I can talk to them just yet,” he said, sounding distressed.  Ignoring messages from his superiors was not something that set well with Hot Spot’s programming.  Silverbolt didn't think they suspected the truth; it was...beyond incomprehensible.  They were just concerned for Aid, although he did wonder what Trailbreaker had figured out from Hot Spot's conversation with the Decepticon in the brig.  He sighed inwardly.  They would need to know soon, he supposed, but his instinct was to shield the Protectobots from everything and everyone for awhile.   
    
“Hey, we’ll hold ‘em off for you,” Air Raid offered, eager to be of assistance.  “We can go trash the rec room or something. That ought to keep them distracted for awhile.”   
    
Hot Spot laughed at that, and it sounded…better.  Not his wonderful world-expanding laughter that always made everything seem so full of possibility, but it was better than the short, bitter laughter from earlier.    
    
“Thanks, Air Raid,” Hot Spot said, smiling in genuine appreciation although his optics were still troubled.  “I appreciate the…sacrifice, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”   
    
“I think I can come up with a less destructive way to keep them off of your exhaust pipes,” Silverbolt told him.  “They can wait, they just want to help, but you tell us when you’re ready.  Take whatever time you need, and Spot, if you need anything…”   
    
Hot Spot didn’t answer, but he gripped Silverbolt’s arm in silent thanks before he slipped through the door to the Protectobot quarters.   
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for angst, possible triggery content - heavily implied non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor.

They were all awake, still curled around each other when Hot Spot stepped into the common room.  First Aid held Groove against his shoulder as Groove cried softly.  His face bore a worried frown as one hand gently rubbed his brother’s back, and he was humming a quiet melody, the sweet notes more felt than heard.  Hot Spot sat next to Streetwise and wrapped an arm around him, while he used his leg to nudge Blades into a more comfortable position to lean against. 

Groove wept himself into silence at last.  First Aid looked up at Hot Spot, optics behind the visor alert and measuring.  

“Where were you?”

Hot Spot gave a slight shrug in response.  He raised his hand to rub at his helm, and Aid leaned forward to grab it, with a small sound of dismay over the dents and scratches. 

“Other one,” First Aid ordered, with an imperious beckoning gesture of his free hand.  Hot Spot obediently gave over his other hand with a faint smile at First Aid’s commanding tone.  A gentle tyrant indeed, at least when it came to matters where he knew best.  First Aid closely inspected both hands and then looked up at Hot Spot with a soft exasperated sigh.  You see?  His expression said it, clearly.  This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. 

“You need to go see Ratchet,” Hot Spot reminded him, and First Aid nodded, pushing air through his intakes in a reluctant whoosh of breath.  Ratchet was not going to be happy with him at all.  First Aid looked at his teammates and they looked back at him, expressions sad, weary, dazed with knowledge and weeping. 

“Are the Aerialbots still camped outside the door?” he asked Hot Spot.

Hot Spot nodded.  “We still need to move that bridge.”  They all perked up a little at that, and First Aid smiled slightly.  

“I was thinking more along the lines of a sparring match.”

“What?” Hot Spot laughed a little incredulously.  “With Superion?”  First Aid nodded, and Hot Spot leaned over to knuckle him on the helm gently.  “It has been awhile, hasn’t it.  Are you sure you’re up to it?”  While Hot Spot could usually out-wrestle any of the Aerialbots on an individual basis, Superion was a different matter entirely.  Defensor usually lost their infrequent sparring matches, unless Superion was distracted or not fighting up to full capacity for some reason.  Like being worried about his friend.  Hmm.  Unfair advantage perhaps, but…Hot Spot wasn’t feeling fair.  He was feeling strange and rebellious and slightly wild to be honest.  The others were picking up on it as well, sitting up straighter, shaking off their dazed weariness.

“Let me avoid Ratchet a little longer, ok?”  At Hot Spot’s frown, First Aid added, “I  _altered_  medical readouts, Spot.  This might be my last chance at freedom for a long time once he gets hold of me.”  First Aid was thinking the closeness that was Defensor would be good for them, and he meant it as a sort of apology, as well, for their earlier unsucessful merge.  Hot Spot could sense it easily through the bond, now that First Aid was no longer blocking him out.  

//Do you think Ratchet will throw a wrench?// Streetwise sent, the thought more hopeful than apprehensive. 

Blades snorted, rotors twitching.  "Air Raid was just pulling your leg components, bolthead.  Ratchet doesn't really do that."  Streetwise subsided into hurt stillness, and Blades reached over and tugged him over in apology. 

//Sorry.  I just...I need to  _do_  something//

Hot Spot looked at First Aid’s hopeful optics, very wide and blue behind his visor, weighing their growing restlessness against the pain First Aid had been hiding since he'd been returned to them.  Not that bad, he insisted.  He was fine.  “Primus help me if you ever ask for something I can’t give you,” he said, only half-joking, and the rest of the Protectobots climbed to their feet and gathered at the door, optics glowing eagerly. 

 _Silverbolt?_ Hot Spot commed _._

 _Yeah, Hot Spot!_  came the answer immediately. _I’m here.  What’s up?_

_Race you to the practice field._

_Huh?_ was all Silverbolt managed, before a stampede of Protectobots exited their quarters and ran down the corridor with a chorus of whoops and shouts.  The Aerialbots stared at one another until Blades turned and jogged partway back.

“C’mon!  Idiots.  You’re all so dense I’m surprised—” 

Slingshot surged to his feet with a roar and Blades yelped in glee as the rest of the Aerialbots chased him down the corridor after his brothers.   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You just can’t catch a break, can you, kiddo.” 

That was Ratchet’s voice, only it was wrong somehow.  It seemed far away, but too loud at the same time, and it was sad and gentle and not at all how Ratchet talked, especially if he was mad at you.  He was pretty sure Ratchet was supposed to be mad, though he couldn't quite remember the reason.  First Aid wondered for a moment if he was dying, to make Ratchet sound like that (and it was Wheeljack that called him ‘kiddo,’ wasn't it?  Maybe he had them mixed up...), but he didn’t think so.  Ratchet would have told him if he was.  His head ached and he felt so hot and nothing would stay still.  First Aid curled up on his side as the berth seemed to shift underneath him and his throat cables protested at the movement.  The soreness made him remember.  He’d purged everything in his tanks for what felt like orns, that was why his throat hurt.  Why was he shivering if he was hot? 

Virus.  Ratchet had explained it to him before.  Before it got this bad.  When he could still think.  First Aid pressed his helm against the berth, trying to get it to stop moving, trying to remember.  He knew about viruses.  Not a lot yet, his specialty was emergency field repair, but he had studied them, knew enough to protect himself and his patients from infection, but this one…from the Decepticon.  Motormaster.  Not transmitted through casual contact, but when…his processor turned away sharply from that avenue of thought.  It had gotten through his firewalls.  Dormant.  Motormaster had already had it but had never gotten it cleared from his systems.  Not transmitted…his brothers!  Were they infected too?  First Aid struggled in a panic, nearly falling off the berth.

“Whoa, shhh, Aid, calm down.  Lie back down.”  Wheeljack’s face bobbed and swung in front of him as he hung on to Wheeljack’s arms.  They were moving.  Why was everything moving?  He wished it would stop. 

“Did I make them sick?  Wheeljack, did I…” he sobbed, and the ache in his processor stabbed at him and his throat cables burned. 

“No, shhh, no, Aid, they’re fine.  Remember?  Ratchet gave them an antiviral just in case, but their scans all came up clean.  They’re all right outside; we can let them in just as soon as we’re sure they’re not going to get too much feedback.  How is your tank doing?”

First Aid clenched his jaw against a moan as everything went unbearably hot for a moment, and then he shivered deeply.  “Tank’s better,” he said, when he could talk again.   

“Everything else worse though, huh kiddo?”  Wheeljack asked sympathetically, and First Aid nodded minutely.  

“It’s not going to be fun, but it won’t last long.”  Ratchet’s face drifted into view.  First Aid shuttered his optics as it seemed to slide past at a dizzying pace.  “This is the worst part, just hang in there a few more joors and you’ll start feeling better.”

Wheeljack was stroking his helm only it wasn’t comforting.  First Aid squirmed as his hand only irritated oversensitive pressure sensors.  Wheeljack seemed to realize this and held his hand still instead.  That was better.  First Aid relaxed a little.  As long as it didn’t move.  Good to know.  If he ever had to treat a patient with a virus.  No patting but steady pressure wasn’t so bad, and put something on the berth so it would stop moving.  He’d have to remember that.  He wanted to ask Ratchet more, about the virus, and the antivirus that killed them (he didn’t like that, the idea of killing them, even if they were just viruses) and where did viruses come from in the first place anyway, but Ratchet was asking him if he could open his right lateral data port panel.  Oh. 

He didn’t want to.  He really didn’t want to, but he did, and lay quietly while Ratchet did something that numbed the sore place, the core deep burning that had been there since….First Aid risked unshuttering his optics a little to see Wheeljack looking off somewhere, mask off, faceplates grim and angry.  Everyone was upset and angry now.  It wasn’t supposed to be his fault; Hot Spot said so, and so did Blades and Streetwise and Groove, but it still was.  He made a small questioning noise, and Wheeljack looked down, expression changing quickly to a not-very-convincing reassuring smile. 

Everything started sliding again, so First Aid shuttered his optics and tried politely asking everything to please hold still.  It seemed to help.  At least the berth was only bobbing gently now instead of flip flops.  Thank you, he told it, patting it blindly with one hand. Thank you for holding still.  He was probably delirious, talking to the berth, but it never hurt to be polite.  He heard a small click as Ratchet closed his panel, although he couldn’t feel anything there now. 

“Better?”  Ratchet asked softly in his not-Ratchet voice, and he nodded, and then his tank gave a small heave, and then another, and it kept getting worse until he was retching helplessly over the side of the berth and it wouldn’t stop and he was sobbing and retching so hard and it  _hurt_  and there was nothing left to bring up, and he heard Wheeljack and Ratchet murmuring, worried, someone holding him and a prick of needle in his arm and then he was falling down and down and down but it was ok.  His tank gave a last twitch and relaxed and he let go of all of it, everything, and just fell…falling…

First Aid did not know he was still weeping, as Wheeljack gathered him up and the drugs tumbled him relentlessly into stasis. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He blinked at the edge of the berth as it slowly came into focus.  It was hazy sort of, that edge, but it wasn’t moving, not at all.  How nice.  He lay there for a moment, just enjoying the stillness.  There was aching, and hot, but it was far away, nothing to concern him, not at the moment.  There was a faint beep and First Aid quickly, automatically reached over and deactivated the monitor that would alert Ratchet or Wheeljack that he was awake.  They were tired, they needed rest.  He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he knew; something his processor had registered the weariness in their voices while he had been offline.  It was a pretty safe bet anyway.  Neither of them ever got enough rest. 

His brothers had been there too.  He remembered their voices and worried thoughts, but he seemed to be alone except for Wheeljack recharging on one of the empty berths.  Otherwise the medbay was empty, silent, although the door to Ratchet’s office was open and Ratchet was no doubt not far away.  First Aid didn’t feel alone though.  A faint warm pulling from…somewhere…made him scoot over to the edge of the berth, lean his helm over to find them, all four of them, piled up against his berth on the floor, recharging soundly.  He watched them for awhile, content not to think, just to be, the complaining of his frame a distant thing.  After awhile he disconnected the sensors and the energon drip that was attached to him with practiced fingers, then rolled over slowly on his ventral plates, sliding his legs carefully over the edge of the berth and letting gravity pull him down a little bit at a time.  Good berth for staying so still under him.  It was a very long way down; he didn’t remember berths being so tall, but finally his feet touched floor.  His knees buckled abruptly when he let go of the side of the berth and he found himself on hands and knees blinking as he forgot to yell.  Ouch.  But he was where he planned to go, so that was ok. 

“Hey,” First Aid felt strong familiar hands lift him easily, like he was made of aluminum, and he hummed happily as he was engulfed by the pile of his brothers.  They shifted, crowding close until each one was comfortably squashed amongst the others. 

“You’re still so warm,” Hot Spot muttered, turning up his fans. 

“Mmm.  You feel cool.  Cool Spot,” First Aid said, and they all giggled a little, even though it was not really that funny, First Aid thought.  It just felt nice, they agreed silently.  Nice to laugh together.  They hadn’t done that for a long while.

“Hands?” he asked after a bit, and Hot Spot extracted his arms from where they were wrapped around Streetwise’s leg and Blades’ shoulder so First Aid could check the healing scratches and dents.  

“M’kay,” he said muzzily, squirming in closer, still holding Hot Spot’s hands, which he tucked up against his chest for safekeeping.  He drifted, recharge pulling at him, but there was no falling this time because his gestaltmates were all around on every side, and up and down, and he was happy…happy…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ratchet nearly had a spark attack when he saw the empty berth in his medbay.  First Aid was missing, kidnapped, staggered out into the base somewhere in delirium…logically he knew no such thing had happened, but that didn’t stop the cold wave of panic.

He was about to kick Wheeljack awake and ask where the  _frag_  his patient had gotten to, and why the Pit hadn’t the remote alerts gone off, when he saw them all, nestled half under First Aid’s empty berth like a litter of turbofox pups in a den.  First Aid was barely visible, just the side of his face, a bit of elbow and arm, peeking out from behind Hot Spot and a little under Groove, but when Ratchet ran his scanners over what parts of him were available, everything seemed to be in order.  Temperature still a little high, spark rate steady and stronger, energon pressure…low…Ratchet frowned.  It would have been higher if someone hadn’t  _detached himself from the energon drip_ , but it wasn’t dangerously low, not yet.  He checked the energy levels of the other four for good measure…also low.  He’d have to wake them soon to take some energon or they’d all be going into stasis, but they looked so peaceful.  The one visible corner of First Aid’s mouth was pressed upwards in the slightest hint of a smile.  

He creaked and groaned a little, getting back to his feet.  He would never understand the Protectobots’ predilection for ending up on the floor, no matter how many perfectly good berths and chairs were available.  Maybe they'd feel differently when they had a few thousand vorns on their chronometers and their joints and servos started to stiffen up, though he knew they all had residual stiffness already, from the pulse cannon blast that had nearly deactivated them a vorn ago.  Especially First Aid, although it was rare for him to show it.  Just like he hadn't shown any sign of his injuries when Ratchet had checked him out after he was rescued, despite the circuits to the damaged port being scorched to the core.  And tampering with the readouts...Ratchet supposed he should be upset with his apprentice, but more than anything it spoke to him of the state First Aid had been in. He was more upset with himself, for not catching on sooner. 

He should have suspected…but none of them had even  _considered_ …First Aid was a  _sparkling_  for Primus' sake, barely past his second vorn.  Young as they were, the Protectobots had performed beyond all expectations in their roles with the Autobots, roles they'd demanded and fought for despite any attempts to shelter them, but Ratchet could see how new they were sometimes.  Other mechs recognized it as well, and between that and their primarily search-and-rescue function it provided them with some level of protection on the battlefield.  Not completely, they were still fair game, but even Decepticons had lines they wouldn’t cross.  Or so he thought.  The immature state of First Aid’s circuits would have been unmistakable the moment that… _’Con_ …that Pit-spawned malfunction—Ratchet didn’t even want to think his name—had attempted to establish a connection.  It was…it was unthinkable.  Which was why Ratchet had never thought of it.  None of them had.  

He didn’t know what to do.  He could treat First Aid’s physical injuries; the damage, thankfully, was not permanent, but the mental…it wouldn’t be the first time he and Smokescreen had treated a survivor of forced interface, but never a sparkling.  It just…it just didn’t happen.  There was nothing in the published literature, no guidelines to go by.  That… _slagger_ , Motormaster, needed to be put down, like a glitched-out turbofox.  Despite popular opinion, Ratchet was not a murderous being, as a rule, but even medics had their limits past which they were willing to shed a little energon.  Except First Aid, maybe, who operated under his own unique system of programming.  He'd only seemed bewildered, a little. Blaming himself, Ratchet knew, from his confused ramblings during the worst of his illness, but no anger, none at all.  Then there were his teammates.  What happened to one of them, happened to them all.  Five of them.  Sparklings.   _Raped_.  Ratchet’s hand twinged in protest and he realized he was crushing his scanner.  He took a deep intake and forced his hand to relax, shaking it painfully. 

Primus, he needed some high grade.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten well and thoroughly over-charged.  Ratchet sighed and pulled up a chair, sent off an update to Prowl and Optimus about First Aid’s status, received their quick, relieved replies and assurances that the Protectobots could be spared from active duty for as long as needed. 

They couldn’t, really.  Spare them forever.  Ratchet knew that, down in his spark, no matter how badly he wanted things to be different.  And maybe getting back to work would be the best thing; Primus knew the Protectobots thrived on it, on being needed.  As they had learned from the Aerialbots, gestalts were their own best therapy, most of the time.  Gestalts, so vulnerable in the way that damages, trauma to one affected the others so deeply, but at the same time Ratchet had seen the tradeoff, how strong they were together, as both teams had proven before.  Both physically and mentally, their support for one another allowing them to weather ordeals that would leave most mechs dead or glitching in a corner somewhere.  He could only hope it would hold true now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Streetwise stirred in the cozy huddle of his brothers and brushed his mind over them all, one-two-three-four.  Everyone present, all secure.  He felt the muted murmur and hum of their thoughts, emotions in recharge, and he sought out First Aid, lingered there a little in that familiar quiet.  Content, mostly.  Deep contentment and joy even, treasuring their presence and closeness and Streetwise basked in that joy like a bright warm embrace.  Distant, unacknowledged pain, that was there too, but at least he wasn’t hiding from them anymore and that was good. 

Streetwise hadn't been as unprepared as the others for what had happened to First Aid.  Not by much, but at least it wasn't his first encounter with interfacing.  He knew nearly everything that happened on the base; that was just what he did.  He found out things, whether he was supposed to know them or not.  He couldn’t help it.  It wasn’t like he was sneaking around trying to find out…it was just…he saw things, little clues, the way someone said something, and item missing or new or moved, and he couldn’t help it if his auditory sensors kept picking up conversations, right through walls sometimes.  And then all of the little clues and threads would weave themselves together and he would know things.  It worried Hot Spot, that Streetwise kept figuring things out that really should be classified, things that were none of their business. 

He had watched a pair of mechs once, curious.  They hadn’t known he was there, sitting in his favorite perch in what had once been a library with a datapad on ancient Cybertronian glyphs.  No one ever came in there.  It was a leftover part of the base, from when it was a school and not a military operation, which was probably why the two mechs thought they would be alone.  It had been very strange, but not a bad thing, and after they left Streetwise had shaken his head and gone back to his datapad, and mostly forgotten about it.

First Aid had known about interfacing too, but it had only been words, words and diagrams, from his medical texts.  It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Silverbolt had told Hot Spot.  Not that awful empty-devouring look in Motormaster’s optics, smell of scorched metal and rancid oil, terrible crushing grip and…First Aid not understanding at first, and then his silent soul-sick endurance (I could have stopped him.  I know how, I should have fought.  Guilt and shame, and his brothers’ vehement protest, no, he would have killed you, it wasn’t your fault, it  _wasn’t_  your fault, it wasn’t, not your fault, over and over, until you believe it).  

He felt First Aid and the others waking, and Streetwise quickly tamped down his thoughts.  First Aid was still fuzzy, still aching a little with strut-deep weariness and not wanting to move, but his content and happiness stayed with him upon waking and warmed through them all, and they wrapped him in their gladness that he was with them, that he was getting better, that he was theirs and they were his. 

//I thought we were Hot Spot’s// came First Aid’s slightly wandering thought. 

//You are// Hot Spot answered, amused //but I’ll share//  

Streetwise felt First Aid brushing curiously at his mind, the memory there, the one he had been…not hiding, precisely, but not drawing attention to it, not sure if they wanted to think about it.  Even thinking the word made First Aid go still, like a glitch mouse hoping not to be seen, although he was trying not to, he was trying to look at it without seeing that other one and what he had done, but it was hard, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if the memory would help or make him go still and hiding again.

//Silverbolt said it wasn’t supposed to be like that// Hot Spot offered, encouraging but not pushing, leaving it up to First Aid to decide.  Groove was a wordless reluctance, Blades wavering.  First Aid nudged Streetwise a little, tired but determined. 

//I won’t let him make us afraid.  Show us// 

Streetwise bumped Groove, reassuring, and they all burrowed a little closer into the bond, bracing one another as they looked into the memory of what Streetwise had seen, the two mechs rubbing, moaning, clutching at one another as they plugged themselves together.  It didn’t look like fun, exactly. 

//It looks like it hurts them// was First Aid’s thought, apprehensive, and they could all feel the phantom memory-of-pain for a moment until First Aid determinedly stomped it down, growling at it a little. 

//It’s not hurting them.  They like it, just watch// Streetwise reassured them.  Once First Aid’s mind stopped trying to crawl away, (and Blades stopped giggling, a little hysterically.  But still, First Aid,  _growling!_ ) they all turned back to the memory, watching as the two…(lovers?  //Lovers// agreed Streetwise) groaned in satisfaction when they were done, and murmured and stroked each other softly.  Strange, they all agreed.  Not a bad thing, but strange.  First Aid even leaned into the memory a little closer, intrigued by the tender way the first mech brushed a finger over the other’s lip components.  Nice.  That looked nice.  (Hot Spot took a moment to examine the two mechs more closely, then sighed and added the information that the Autobot second in command was consorting with a mech sporting Decepticon insignias to the growing file of ‘things they really shouldn't know.’)

//I’d like to do that to Ratchet// Streetwise’s thought drifted to the surface, and the other four rounded on him in shock. 

//Streetwise!//

//Just the lip part// he told them, and he felt their laughter ricochet through the bond.  //Not all the other things, but…I’d like to touch his lips to make him smile like that// Ratchet smiled sometimes, but not like that, relaxed and peaceful.  

First Aid thought it was funny, too, but they could feel his gladness as well, that Streetwise could think that.  They were going to be ok, he was not going to let them be afraid of this, and they felt the pain and relief and sorrow rise in him again.  First Aid tried to push it down but he was tired, so tired, and this time it would not be growled at.  That didn’t stop him from trying, frustrated, weeping, until Hot Spot pulled him up a little higher in their pile and let him cry. 

//We’ll be ok, you’ll be ok, but it doesn’t have to all be right now.  It’s alright to be not ok for awhile// and First Aid sobbed silently into Hot Spot’s shoulder, not wanting to wake Wheeljack or worry Ratchet.  Not very long.  He soon quieted into exhausted silence. 

//so tired, no more thinking?//

//no more thinking, just rest, rest// Hot Spot told him, and First Aid rubbed his visor and wriggled a little trying to get comfortable; the crying had made everything start to ache again.  Streetwise could feel it through the bond.  First Aid was tired, so tired, but his systems didn’t want to power down into recharge, and he just wanted to rest, just rest...   

Ratchet was there, pulling First Aid gently out of the tangled pile of his brothers and setting him back on the berth.  First Aid leaned his head against Ratchet’s chestplates gratefully as Ratchet reattached the energon transfusion line. 

“You four, sit,” he ordered, looking down at the rest of the Protectobots.  Streetwise obediently crept out from under First Aid’s berth with Groove and Blades and Hot Spot and they sat down on the neighboring one, watching worriedly.    

“Can you swallow some of this?” Ratchet asked First Aid, sitting next to him on the berth so he could still lean against Ratchet and handing him a small cube of something.  First Aid lifted the cube slowly, and managed to take a few sips, while Wheeljack returned with four cubes of regular energon and passed them out to the rest of the Protectobots.  He rubbed Streetwise affectionately on the helm a few times after he gave him his energon, and Streetwise smiled and looked down at the swirling blue liquid with a sigh.  He hadn’t realized how low he was on energy, but he really didn’t feel like refueling. 

“Drink,” Ratchet ordered them.  “All of it.”  They all lifted their cubes meekly.  First Aid’s visor dimmed, and he sighed and wilted slowly against Ratchet as he went into recharge.  Ratchet rescued the cube before it could fall and then lowered First Aid onto the berth where he curled up on his side with another deep sigh.  He turned to survey the other four who were slumped slightly together on the other berth as they took tiny sips of their energon.

“He’s doing just fine,” he told them, before they could ask.  “He’s going to need a lot of rest for the next several orns, but the virus is deactivated and his systems are starting to recover.”

“Now, as for the rest of you,” he said, voice dropping ominously, “I thought I gave you instructions to get some energon and go to your quarters to recharge.”  Streetwise perked up a little.  They had never disobeyed Ratchet before.  Hot Spot had even broken the rules and used First Aid's medical security codes to get them back through the medbay doors.  Maybe they would see some of the fabled wrench-throwing?  Ratchet was just so…magnificent.  Blades was next to him and caught the thought, snickering softly and giving him an amused glance.  So what?  Streetwise was not embarrassed.  He  _was_  magnificent.  Blades thought so too; he just wouldn’t admit it.

“I apologize, Ratchet, for not following orders,” Hot Spot said evenly, “but we couldn’t leave him.  And I’m afraid none of us have really been ourselves lately.”  Ratchet nodded, not mentioning the door code, apparently letting it slide for now.  Streetwise slumped a little in disappointment.  He was never going to see any wrench-throwing if Hot Spot kept acting like _that_. 

Ratchet was eyeing their barely touched cubes of energon dourly, and they all hastily pretended to drink more, but Streetwise didn’t think Ratchet was fooled. 

“All right.  I’m keeping you lot here for observation for the next couple of joors.  Everyone find a berth and get comfortable.  And anyone who doesn’t finish his cube is getting an energon drip, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Streetwise ended up on the end berth next to Blades, with Wheeljack hooking up an energon line to his arm. 

“Why so mournful, Streets?”  Wheeljack asked him. 

“We’re all spread apart,” Streetwise answered.  He didn’t see the point, all of the separate berths.  He couldn’t reach Blades’ hand from his, even if they both stretched their arms out. 

“I know, but Ratchet wants to keep track of all of your individual readings, and it’s easier if you’re not all tangled together.  It’s just for a little while, think you can manage?”  

Streetwise nodded, looking longingly over at Blades, but Blades was already recharging. Hot Spot was over on the other side of First Aid and Ratchet was talking to him, Hot Spot nodding seriously and attempting to sit up every now and then.  Ratchet would give him a  _look_ each time, and Hot Spot would subside momentarily.  The trick with getting Hot Spot to recharge was to get him to hold still long enough, and the best way to do  _that,_  in Streetwise’s opinion, was by piling on top of him until he couldn’t move.  Wheeljack used to sing to get Hot Spot to recharge when they had been first constructed, on the little nameless planet where they had been built.    Streetwise didn’t want to go back exactly; they were where they needed to be, but he missed having Wheeljack sing them to recharge.

Hot Spot would never shut down if he thought Streetwise was upset, so Streetwise tried to make his mind small and calm and maybe Hot Spot wouldn’t notice.  Streetwise understood about the monitors and things, but still…putting them on all of these berths just seemed like a big waste of space.  If they were together on one then Ratchet wouldn’t have to walk all over the place to check on them.  They could fit, if they smushed on top of Hot Spot just so. 

He curled up tightly on the berth, and tried to distract himself by going over Wheeljack’s design for a force field for Defensor.  He’d asked for everyone’s input on it, just before First Aid had been taken.  If it worked it would give them a breem or so of protection from close range blasts like the one that had taken them out in their first battle.  Streetwise tried to concentrate on energy ratios and shield theory, but…it wasn’t working.  He didn’t know what was wrong with him—it wasn’t like he never recharged apart from his brothers.  Sometimes missions took them apart, but usually they were too busy to think too much about it.  And they were all here, all in the same room.  There was absolutely no reason why he should feel so lost or alone, or why he wanted to cry.  He wasn’t going to cry though.  He wasn’t.  Slag.  He was crying.  Streetwise pushed his face against the padding of the berth, hoping to muffle the sound. 

“Street…”  Wheeljack was rubbing his back. “Hey, Streetwise, what’s wrong?”  Streetwise didn’t know what was wrong, so he just curled up tighter, choking a little with his effort to stop crying.  He was still a sparkling, but that didn't mean he had to act like one for Primus’ sake.  Wheeljack wiggled a hand in and levered him up, and he gave it up as a lost cause, uncurling with a little sob-whimper. 

“Does something hurt?” 

Streetwise shook his head.  No, nothing hurt.  Nothing he could tell Wheeljack about anyway, to give Wheeljack something he could find and fix.

“Why are you crying then, kiddo?” Wheeljack asked, vocal indicators flashing in concern, brow furrowing as Streetwise remained silent.  "You can talk to me, tell me anything, anytime.  You know that, right?"  Wheeljack told him, optics steady and kind.  Streetwise felt a rush of affection for the engineer.  Wheeljack was so busy, but he always made time if they needed him, always answered Streetwise’s questions, no matter how many he had.

“Air Raid said Ratchet can nail a mech in the helm at thirty paces with his wrench, but I think he was making it up.  I’ve never seen him throw anything at all,” he said sorrowfully.  Which wasn’t what was wrong at all, or it was, but only the tiniest part.  Usually he was better at explaining.  The others relied on him sometimes if there was something complicated, with layers and sides, and little parts to explain.  Not now though.  There were too many things to say, too many things he hadn’t figured out, too many things that had been wrong and were still wrong even though they were getting better, and he couldn’t say them all at once and so he said none. 

Wheeljack’s vocal indicators flashed brightly again, and he laughed and started, “You were crying because you want Ratchet…”

“You want Ratchet to what?” interrupted Ratchet, coming around Wheeljack to make sure the energon drip line attachment was secure and feeling for Streetwise’s spark pulse with brusque but gentle fingers.  Streetwise stared at him mutely and Ratchet frowned.  His face was very close and Streetwise thought about what he’d told the others.  It sounded nice in theory, but he didn’t think Ratchet would understand if he touched him on the lips and gazed lovingly into his optics right now, like that other mech had done to Prowl.  He’d probably just check his core temperature and give him a processor scan, Streetwise thought mournfully.

“Does anything hurt?” he asked, like Wheeljack had, and Streetwise shook his head, trying again not to cry.  No.  Nothing hurt.  Everything hurt.  Ratchet drank too much high grade sometimes, Streetwise knew.  First Aid never said anything about it, but he worried, and the worry leaked through into their bond.

Ratchet sighed, looking at him.  “Gestalts,” he muttered, then detached the energon drip line from his arm.  “Come on,” Ratchet grumbled, pulling Streetwise off the berth and nudging him over to Blades’ with a light push on his back.  Wheeljack winked one optic at him and helped him climb up next to Blades and snuggle in close, rearranging his rotors a little so they didn’t poke him in the side. 

“Mmph,” Blades blinked at him blearily and tugged him up a bit higher, so Streetwise was draped across his chestplates.  Streetwise mumbled something in return and felt every servo and circuit relax, all the way down to his struts.  Better.  Much, much better.  Blades, only half awake, wrapped him in his strong fierce mind and sleepily revved his engine, threatening the world in general, at whatever dared to make Streetwise upset. 

“There you go,” Ratchet said as he set up another energon drip and attached it to his arm.  Streetwise didn’t even feel a twinge.  “Imp,” he growled affectionately, close to his audio.  “Now recharge.”

“You’re a good medic, Ratchet,” Streetwise murmured into Blade’s chest. 

Ratchet chuckled.  “Well thank you.  And just how many medics have you met youngling?”  

“No, you are…you are…”  Recharge was pulling at him, and Streetwise wasn’t sure if he was still talking out loud or just thinking.  Sometimes it was hard to remember Wheeljack and Ratchet weren’t part of their gestalt, couldn’t feel them, they had to use words. 

“Wheeljack?” he spoke or thought. “I miss when you sang for us.”  Wheeljack was saying something, questioning, and he tried to repeat what he said but this time Streetwise was pretty sure he wasn’t actually talking.  He dimly felt the berth shift a little as Wheeljack sat down and his hand on Streetwise’s back, and then he thought he smiled or he thought of smiling and peace trickled through him like warm energon as Wheeljack softly began one of the rolling work songs of the bridge builder’s guild in his rough but tuneful voice and it followed him down into peace and sweet darkness and Blades warm beneath him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for angst, possible triggery content - strongly implied non-graphic sexual abuse of a minor.

Wheeljack finished his song, watching Streetwise’s face as he cycled deeper into recharge.  He would smile a little, then frown, the optic ridges rising slightly as if he wanted to ask a question, then the noseplates wrinkled slightly with a mischievous air, his face a constantly changing palette of expressions, even in recharge.  Wheeljack remembered how he had been, newly constructed sparkling, all wide optics and eager curiosity and a constant barrage of questions, and you never knew what innocent, perfectly serious, and utterly hysterical or completely brilliant observation was going to come out of his vocalizer next.  All he’d been through in his two short vorns hadn’t managed to quash that bright spirit, wiggly and restless, with a spark as big as all Cybertron.

Ratchet came back from checking the other three again, meeting Wheeljack’s optics.  “I don’t know.  Hot Spot says it’s not feedback from First Aid.  Reaction to the antiviral maybe?  Or it could be entirely from the stress and trauma.  Primus only knows what they’ve been going through.”  Ratchet eyed the peacefully recharging Streetwise and Blades, frowning deeply.  “We’ll see how they’re doing after a good long recharge.”      

“How long are you going to keep everyone locked out?”  Wheeljack asked.  There had been several pings to the medbay door over the last joor, none urgent, and a slew of comm. messages, but Ratchet had ignored them all. 

“They can slagging well wait until I’m sure they’re going to be all right.”  Ratchet rubbed at his faceplates wearily.  They’d notified Prime, once it became clear that First Aid’s illness could have only been contracted one way, and according to Hot Spot the Aerialbots knew the truth. Wheeljack doubted many of the other Autobots at the base had deduced what had happened—it was too inconceivable—but he knew many of them were worried about the Protectobots.  Ironhide.  Oh Primus.  He didn’t want to lie to the weapon’s specialist; he wasn’t sure he even could, but he was afraid of what Ironhide might do.  The big lug would never stop to think that getting himself deactivated trying to take on Motormaster wouldn’t do First Aid a bit of good at all. 

“Were they always this hard to get into recharge?” Ratchet sighed.

Wheeljack snorted.  “Worse.  The Aerialbots were just as bad; you’ve just forgotten.”  He was quiet awhile, looking down at Streetwise and Blades again.  Streetwise hadn’t asked any questions about what had happened to First Aid.  None of them had.  Wheeljack hadn’t pressured them for more than Hot Spot had already shared (and what that had cost him, to explain everything in that low, even voice, Wheeljack didn’t even want to imagine), but he wondered if he should, if it would be better to get them to talk more about it. 

“Hot Spot thinks they are doing just fine,” Ratchet said, thoughts moving along the same lines.  “He agreed to talk to Smokescreen, but he says they really just want to get back to work.  I don’t know.  I just…”  Ratchet shook his head helplessly. 

“I know,” Wheeljack told him. 

“I’m not letting them off base again for the next two hundred vorns,” Ratchet muttered, and Wheeljack nodded, knowing it was impossible.  They were too valuable in the field, saved too many lives, and they would go into cascade failure from frustration if they couldn’t help, couldn’t be useful doing the jobs they had been built for.  Wheeljack knew his creations. 

Wheeljack was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of someone pounding against the door to the medbay.  Ratchet cursed under his breath. 

“Whoever that is had better be leaking energon or they are going to be in danger of immediate deactivation,” he said in a dangerous voice as he stomped over to the door.  There was some heated discussion and…Air Raid?  It sounded like Air Raid, yelping in pain, and then Ratchet was pulling the jet through the door, shutting it immediately behind him.  Air Raid was indeed leaking, one wing bent at a strange angle as he stood wincing in Ratchet’s grip.

Wheeljack slid off the end of the berth and helped Ratchet get Air Raid up on to the berth Streetwise had vacated. 

“What happened to you?” Wheeljack asked his incorrigible creation, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer.

“Flew into a relay tower,” Air Raid answered cheerfully, in his usual loud clear voice. 

Ratchet activated the welder on his hand and held it close to Air Raid’s face.  “If you wake them up, I will weld your mouthplates closed and rivet your wings to your aft.  Sit.  Here.  Quietly.  I’ll be right back.”  Air Raid nodded, optics wide.

“Ratchet…” he said, and Ratchet turned back, glaring.  “How…how are they doing?” Air Raid asked, voice soft, carefully quiet. 

Ratchet’s expression softened a little (a very little).  “First Aid is over the worst of the virus, and his systems are clear.  He’ll be out of commission for awhile yet, but he should make a full recovery.  The others I’m keeping here mainly as a precaution.  They should be fine as long as they get a good long recharge with  _no disturbances_.” Ratchet waved his welder hand a little on the last statement, eyeing Air Raid meaningfully. 

“We were worried, when First Aid fell over like that,” Air Raid told Wheeljack, once Ratchet was gone, shifting uncomfortably as his injured wing brushed against the berth.  “We were afraid it was something we did.”

“Ah yes, I heard about your little impromptu wrestling match,” Wheeljack said.  “Who won?”

“Defensor, but…I think Superion let him win,” Air Raid said with a cheeky grin, “but then, when we separated, First Aid kind of fell over in a heap and we thought maybe we’d damaged him accidentally or something.”  Air Raid shook his head at remembered concern.  “Hot Spot said no, and First Aid said no, too, but that didn’t stop Silverbolt from going on like it was all his fault.”  Air Raid rolled his optics.

“Mmm,” Wheeljack said, noncommittally, as he started unwinding a bit of cable that had somehow gotten wrapped around Air Raid’s shoulder. 

“ _Then_  he had to go and get himself thrown in the brig,” Air Raid continued mournfully.

“Silverbolt?”  Wheeljack said loudly, startled, then glanced over at Streetwise and Blades, and lowered his voice.  “How the Pit did Silverbolt end up in the brig?  I thought that was your job.” 

“I know!  I wouldn’t have gotten caught at least.  Silverbolt’s not so good at sneaking around.  He’s good at catching us, but he doesn’t have nearly enough practice sneaking.”

Wheeljack waved his hand in a small circle at Air Raid.  Annnd?

“Oh!  Right.  So Silverbolt decided he was going to sneak off base and find that fragger, y’know, the one who…anyway.  Silverbolt was going to find him and make sure he could never hurt any of them again, only Prowl caught him before he could even get airborne, and of course Silverbolt can’t lie worth a damn, so he went and  _told_  Prowl what he was planning and then…”  Air Raid waved his hand to illustrate Prowl’s reaction.  “Blah blah blah, lock you up until you’re thinking more clearly, and all that.  And then Skydive said Ratchet was keeping  _all_  of the Protectobots in the medbay and Silverbolt was freaking out, big time, only Ratchet wasn’t letting anyone in…”

“Don’t tell me,” Wheeljack interrupted, one hand going to his optics, “please don’t tell me you ran in to a power relay  _on purpose_ to get in here?”  It shouldn’t surprise him.  Really it shouldn’t surprise him at all.  Of course he had.

Air Raid’s guilty expression confirmed it.  “Fireflight was asking if they were going to die and he was gonna start  _crying_ , Wheeljack, if we didn’t find out and so, well…”  Air Raid started to shrug and then stopped with a muffled yelp.  “It worked didn’t it?” 

“You’re lucky you didn’t electrocute yourself,” Wheeljack chided.  “Whatever you do, if you value your aft  _do not_ let Ratchet know it wasn’t an accident or he’ll make the brig with Silverbolt look like a luxury vacation to Praxus.”

Air Raid ran a finger over his lips as if welding them shut and smirked at Wheeljack as Ratchet returned and began working on his injured wing.  Wheeljack shook his head and went to make sure the Protectobots were all still recharging peacefully.  It was almost sweet, Air Raid busting his wing to get in the medbay, if it wasn’t also ten kinds of stupid.   

Wheeljack paused when he got to Groove.  The scout was curled up in a tight little ball on the berth, but his optics were unshuttered and glowing dimly, staring at nothing.  Unlike Streetwise, his face was still.  Groove had a gift for stillness, for just being in a place and simply…being there, counterpoint to the fidgety Streetwise.  This particular stillness, however, the distant staring—that wasn’t normal Groove.  Wheeljack bent and put a hand on his helm. 

“Groove?”  Groove didn’t respond, didn’t even blink, and Wheeljack felt a stronger twist of worry.  His vitals were all stable, Wheeljack noted, checking quickly.  “Groove?  Hey, Groove, where are you buddy?” he said, continuing to stoke his helm gently.  To his relief, Groove finally stirred and blinked, optics focusing slowly on Wheeljack.  Wheeljack smiled at him.  “You had me worried there for a moment.  Are you alright?”

Groove blinked at him silently, and Wheeljack felt his worry come back.  “Groove?” he said again, taking one of Groove’s hands and rubbing it a little.  His hand finally moved, turning to hold Wheeljack’s in a gentle grip.  

“Wheeljack?”  Groove finally responded, voice soft and rasping.  “I’m sorry, ‘Jack.  I was somewhere else.” 

“I’ll say,” Wheeljack answered, chuckling a little, although his worry didn’t really abate.  Interrupted recharge cycles.  Processor lock ups.  Could be just a reaction to the antivirals, or stress, as Ratchet had said.  Or the first sign of cascading processor failure.  Who knew what this was doing to their immature systems?  There was just no precedent; there were reasons why things like this just didn’t happen to younglings.  

“Where were you?” he asked, and Groove shrugged one shoulder. 

“Thinking.” 

“Hm, thinking were you.”  Wheeljack said.  “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really,” Groove sighed.  “It wasn’t all bad things, don’t worry, Wheeljack,” he added, correctly reading Wheeljack’s worried frown. 

“Ah, well, ok then,” Wheeljack said, not certain he entirely believed Groove, but, as with Streetwise he was reluctant to press for more than Groove was willing to give him right now. 

“I used to think there was a limit to how bad the bad things could get, but there’s really not, is there?” 

Wheeljack felt his spark ache.  “I’m sorry, kiddo.  I’m so sorry,” was all he could say.  Groove’s sad, quiet smile as he looked up at Wheeljack was much older and understanding than it had any right to be.  There was a muffled yelp from the other side of the medbay, and Groove craned his neck around to see.

“Is that Air Raid?” he asked.  Wheeljack took a deep steadying intake before he spoke. 

“Yeah, but if you value his life, just lie still and go back to recharge.  Ratchet’s threatened him with dismemberment if he wakes any of you up.”

“Is he ok though?  What’s he doing in medbay?”

“Ran himself into a power relay to get in here and see you guys.  Don’t worry, just some wing damage, all fixable.” 

“Air Raid,” Groove sighed and shook his head a little.  “He’s crazy.” 

“Yeah, I’d have to agree with you there,” Wheeljack chuckled weakly.  “It’s a good kind of crazy though.”  He tapped Groove on the noseplates, which Groove rewarded with another faint smile.  “Now do you think you can get back into recharge?  You need it, kiddo.  Your energy levels are still pretty low, and I know Ratchet doesn’t want to give you a sedative unless he has to.” 

“I don’t know, Wheeljack.  I’ll try.”  Groove exhaled wearily. 

“Here,” Wheeljack said, motioning Groove to sit up so he could detach the energon drip. “Ratchet let Streetwise get away with it, so I suppose it’s only fair…”

“I love you, Wheeljack,” Groove said, leaning forward to press his helm against Wheeljack’s chest and then wrap his arms around Wheeljack in a tight hug.

“Love ya too, kid,” Wheeljack murmured, surprised, hugging him back just as tightly.  All of the Protectobots were affectionate, with each other and with him, but Groove had never been as prone to the giving of exuberant hugs as the others. 

“We forget that you can’t feel us thinking it, so I wanted to make sure to tell you,” Groove said, looking up at him seriously.  

“That’s very thoughtful,” Wheeljack smiled. “I must say, it is nice to hear once in awhile.  Need a hand?”

“Nope, I can do it,” Groove said as he hopped down and went over to check on First Aid, who was recharging deeply in his usual position, hands tucked up tightly beneath his chin.  Groove rested a hand on First Aid’s chestplates a few moments before going over to Hot Spot’s berth and clambering easily up beside him.   

Groove waved at Air Raid before lying down to cuddle up next to Hot Spot, and Ratchet eyed them from where he was working on Air Raid’s wing, his expression promising dire things for the jet as soon as Groove was in recharge again.  Wheeljack made a few hand motions, trying to indicate that it wasn’t Air Raid’s fault, Groove had already been awake, and Ratchet rolled his optics ceiling-ward a moment in understanding.  They’d been working together far too long, Wheeljack decided, for Ratchet to get what he meant from those few random hand motions. 

Groove was already cycling into recharge, Wheeljack noted.  He squirmed a little deeper into Hot Spot’s side, systems humming softly as they powered down. 

“What’s that?” Wheeljack leaned closer as Groove said something softly that he didn’t quite hear.  Groove lifted one of his hands to loosely grasp one of Wheeljack’s. 

“Don't be sad...'Jack....No limit to the good things…either,” he murmured, hand relaxing as he drifted into full recharge.

Wheeljack stayed another breem, just to make sure Groove wasn’t going to wake back up, just to give his spark a moment to break a few more times.  Groove seemed…fine, now, curled up peacefully with Hot Spot.  He moved to the next berth to check First Aid’s readings again.  Improving.  Good.

“Supposed to squawk when you’re hurt, kiddo,” he murmured softly, sorrowfully, pausing to rest a hand on First Aid’s helm for a moment.  “Haven’t we gone over this before?”   

What in Primus’ name had he been thinking.  His brilliant plan to build two gestalt teams, and somehow he’d ended up the de facto creator-figure to ten (ten!) new beings.  There’d been many cycles when he’d been convinced he was completely and utterly out of his processor, but never before had he felt so…lost.  His best inventions, all ten of them, and it was never easy, watching them get hurt, knowing (expecting really, it was inevitable, unrealistic to hope they could somehow all come through unscathed forever, and it was dangerous, dangerous to get so attached but he could not do otherwise) they could be killed, but this…he had never thought to prepare for, to prepare them for, not for another couple hundred vorns. Yet another subject that wasn't covered by "Dr. Sprocket's Guide to Sparkling Care."  The old joke suddenly wasn't so funny anymore.  Wheeljack pressed his mouthplates tightly together behind his facemask, feeling his optics burn from optic fluid he would not shed.  His processor kept trying to find scenarios where he could have prevented it, somehow, some way.  He felt like he’d failed them.

He shook himself, drawing air through his intakes in another steadying draught.  Don’t dwell on mistakes of the past.  Learn from them, move forward.  Easier, so much easier, when the mistakes only involved wires and chemicals and maybe an explosion or two.  He gave First Aid a last gentle pat, and went to see if Ratchet needed any help with Air Raid. 

“Hold this a moment,” Ratchet said when he got there, indicating a few torn wires in one of the gashes on Air Raid’s wing. Wheeljack held them in place while Ratchet went to find the right size wire to splice them.  Air Raid didn’t flinch, so Ratchet must have finally numbed the area.  There was quiet tapping at the medbay door, and Air Raid looked up at Wheeljack pleadingly.

“Could you let Fireflight know about the Protectobots and that I’m ok?  He didn’t mean to knock me into that relay quite so hard.”  Air Raid looked at him with a pleading expression and Wheeljack groaned inwardly.  Air Raid didn’t quite have Fireflight’s spark-melting optics, but they were still very hard to refuse.  Wheeljack waited until Ratchet got back and took over with Air Raid’s wing.  When he went to the door, meaning to crack it open slightly, Fireflight pushed his way through unexpectedly, shoving Wheeljack into the wall.

“Oh, sorry Wheeljack!” Fireflight said as he went by in a blurred streak of red over to Air Raid and Ratchet. 

“Air Raid!  Are you ok?  I know you told me to run into you, but I didn’t mean to hit you  _that_  hard, it’s just we were flying so low and hey, Ratchet are the Protectobots going to be alright?  They’re not going to die are they?” 

“Shhhh, Flight!”  Air Raid was motioning to his teammate frantically as Ratchet froze in place, his hands still in Air Raid’s wing, and his optics gleamed in a way that did not bode well for those in his immediate vicinity.  Wheeljack backed away a little and, on impulse, nudged Streetwise a few times until his optics powered up dimly.  He held a finger to his lip components and motioned towards the unfolding drama on the next berth.  Streetwise, ever quick on the draw, merely shifted slightly until he could see, shading his optics under one arm so Ratchet wouldn’t be able to see them.  

“Told him to run into you.   _Told_  him to run into you?”  Ratchet’s voice did not rise in volume, but the oh-you-are-in-deep-slag-now quotient rose exponentially with each repetition of the phrase.  Air Raid scrambled off the berth and he and Fireflight backed away towards the door. 

“Of all of the glitch-headed, misfired things to do, you get yourself deliberately injured and come in here taking up  _my_ valuable time, disrupting  _my medbay_ , and risk waking up patients who I don’t need to tell you have been through  _Pit_.  Oh don’t you even  _think_  of running out of here,” Ratchet intoned as Fireflight slipped out the door, and Air Raid tried to follow, feeling blindly for the opening as he was unwilling to turn his back on Ratchet. 

“You’ve poured your energon and now,” Ratchet lifted one hand, aimed, “you’re going to drink it,” Ratchet said in satisfaction, and threw.   _Thunk!_   Ratchet’s welder hit Air Raid dead on the middle of his helm, and Air Raid dropped like a lead weight. 

“Well, it wasn’t a wrench, but I hope it’ll do.  Happy now?”  Wheeljack leaned close to whisper to Streetwise, while Ratchet’s back was turned as he stalked over to retrieve Air Raid. 

“Thanks, Wheeljack,” Streetwise whispered back, grinning widely, optics shining with pure delight. 

“Takes an Aerialbot to bring out Ratchet’s throwing arm, kiddo.  You Protectobots just never got the knack, thank goodness.”  Streetwise giggled softly and snuggled his face back down against Blades.  Wheeljack tapped his helm lightly in silent warning to go back into recharge and went to help Ratchet lift the dazed Air Raid back on his berth.  Not for all the credits on Cybertron, he thought.  He wouldn’t trade a single one of them for all the credits on Cybertron, even Air Raid.  He’d been completely out of his processor, and thank Primus for that.     

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blades woke up to a faint tickling sensation near his audio.  He brushed at it irritably, registered that it was a hand, a familiar one, and powered up his optics to see Streetwise smiling at him mischievously. 

“Good morning, sparkle wings,” Streetwise said brightly.  “You gonna recharge all the next vorn or what?” 

“Sparkle wings?”  Blades grumbled, stretching and then sitting up with difficulty, as he had to wriggle out from under Streetwise.  “You got a processor loop or something?  I don’t even have wings.  And there’re no mornings on Cybertron.”

“Ah, but you admit you sparkle sometimes,” Streetwise returned, poking him playfully.  Blades gave him his best oh-yeah-we’re-gonna-get-Ratchet-to-scan-your-processor look, and then shook his head, smiling despite himself. 

“That’ll be our little secret, right loop head?” he said, and Streetwise laughed, optics dancing.  He was certainly in a good mood, though Blades could feel the pain, quiescent for now, under it all.  It was strange really, how they could still laugh, how anything could still be funny even after the awful thing that had happened.  Blades didn’t understand, but he was glad for it nonetheless. 

“How’s Aid?” he asked Streetwise, looking over at the form still curled up in recharge on the next berth.  Hot Spot and Groove were awake, sitting on their berth (hadn’t they all been on separate berths?  Blades vaguely remembered Streetwise climbing in with him…) drinking cubes of energon with good appetite, and Wheeljack came over with two cubes for him and Streetwise. 

“First Aid’s doing much better,” Wheeljack told them, smiling.  “He should be waking up soon, too, but we’ll let him recharge as long as he wants.  Now, see how this goes down,” Wheeljack said, handing him a cube.  Blades drank his cube, slowly, but it tasted good now, and felt good, sparkly even, he thought, glancing at Streetwise in amusement, as it filled his tank and filtered into his systems.  

“What happened to Air Raid?”  he asked Streetwise, indicating the prone Aerialbot on the next berth, and Streetwise started to tell him only of course Groove and Hot Spot wanted to hear too, so they all jumbled together on Hot Spot’s berth, snickering quietly at Streetwise’s spot on imitation of Air Raid’s petrified face and Ratchet yelling.  He schooled his face to innocence as Ratchet looked up at them suspiciously from where he was putting a final coat of paint on the repaired area of Air Raid’s wing. 

Streetwise was saying something else now, that he missed, but he heard Hot Spot’s reply.  

“Silverbolt’s in the brig?”  Hot Spot was asking Streetwise urgently, and Streetwise nodded somewhat uncertainly. 

“I think so.  I think it was something I heard in recharge, but I’m pretty sure Air Raid said that.”  Streetwise remembered things that happened while he was recharging, sometimes repeating back conversations word for word, so Blades had no doubt it was true.  You had to be careful what you said around Streetwise, awake or no; they’d all learned that a long time ago. 

Hot Spot looked troubled at that, glancing from Wheeljack to Ratchet, and then to First Aid, and Blades knew he was weighing the odds of getting out of medbay any time soon and finding out what was up with Silverbolt versus not wanting to leave First Aid. 

“You can go if you want to,” Groove said, nimbly pulling his feet up on the berth so Streetwise would have more room to swing his legs. “We’re ok.  We’ll stay with him.”  Hot Spot looked at them all warmly, but shook his head. 

“No, at least if he’s in the brig he’s not going to get himself in any more trouble,” he said.  “Huh.  And he was worried about me trying to do something stupid.”   

“He doesn’t have to answer to First Aid,” Blades said, and they all looked at their recharging medic dotingly. 

“He probably will, actually, if First Aid gets wind of it,” Streetwise warned, and they shared a few sympathetic glances for Silverbolt’s likely fate.  First Aid might not throw wrenches, but he had no match when it came to making you squirm for not taking better care of yourself—sphere calling the circle round though  _that_  was—or doing something reckless and not-well-thought-out in an attempt to “protect” him.  That earnest, compassionate, gently beseeching expression…none of them had ever found a defense against it. 

Ratchet had finished up with Air Raid, and came over to check on First Aid again, wiping the last paint smears from his hands. 

“We should make sure his firewalls are back to full strength before he wakes up,” he told Wheeljack.  “He had a pretty intense reaction earlier; it may take awhile before he’s ready for any type of hardline uplink.”  Ratchet uncoiled an uplink cable and Blades felt his spark pounding suddenly. He was aware of the others looking at him in concern, saying something, but there was a high ringing sound in his audios and he found himself standing, moving in front of First Aid defensively, weapons powering up. 

Hot Spot moved in front of Blades quickly, shielding Ratchet, who quickly put away the cable and backed away from First Aid a few steps, hands open to show they were empty now.

“Blades.   _Blades!”_ Hot Spot was talking to him, gripping his shoulders firmly.  “It’s Ratchet.  Ratchet won’t hurt him.  He’s not going to hurt Aid.  Blades, power down your weapons.   _Now_.”  Hot Spot said the last with a bit of a commanding growl to his voice, and Blades obeyed immediately.  He was shaking.  Hot Spot was shaking too, but deep, inside, where no one could see it, partly from stopping Blades but partly because his first impulse had been to stand next to Blades to keep Ratchet away.  Blades was suddenly, abruptly reminded that none of them were alright, not really.       

“I’m sorry,” Blades said, when he could find his vocalizer again.  “Ratchet, I’m sorry.  I know you’re not going to hurt him, I _know_  that, but I can’t…” his voice cracked and he stopped, clenching his fists and trying not to melt down completely.  He knew Ratchet, yell though he might, would remove his own spark with a low-powered welder before he would hurt First Aid, but he couldn’t let him…he just couldn’t.  It made no rational sense.  Ratchet had uplinked to all of them before, for maintenance checks.  He had no reason not to trust Ratchet. 

“It’s alright, Blades,” Ratchet was saying calmly.  “It’s alright.  I’m sorry, I should have realized. We don’t have to do this now.”

“You need to check though,” Blades said unhappily, “to make sure First Aid’s ok?”  He might be hurting Aid, not letting Ratchet do this, but he didn’t know if he could even move out of the way. 

Ratchet nodded, watching him carefully.  “Would you feel better if Wheeljack did it?”  he asked.  Blades wanted to say yes, (for Primus’ sake, Wheeljack had designed them, constructed most of them, he knew their every circuit and wire) but he just…Blades let his head drop against Hot Spot’s chest and Hot Spot drew him closer in a hug.  

“I think you’re going to have to hit me with your wrench,” he said miserably, from under Hot Spot’s arm, and Ratchet’s lips twitched briefly.

“I don’t think it will have to come to that,” Ratchet said, voice calm and soothing.  “We’ll come up with something else, Blades, don’t worry.”

From behind him Blades heard First Aid mumble something that sounded like his name and Blades turned out of Hot Spot’s embrace to gather First Aid up to him closely with a little sob.  First Aid snuggled up to him without protest, cycling air more deeply as his systems came out of recharge.  He felt warm, but it was normal-warm, and his engine hummed smoothly, not hitching and skipping like before. 

“Blades…” First Aid cycled another deep breath, ran gentle fingers over his face, then curled them around his neck.  “What?” he murmured, pushing at him through the gestalt bond.  Blades sighed and showed him, and First Aid pushed off his chest a little to power up his optics until his visor glowed softly and gave him The Look, and Blades hung his head.  “Oh Blades,” First Aid said gently, sorrowfully, “it’s  _Ratchet_.  Ratchet would never hurt me.”        

“I know that.  I know it, I do…but…” Blades moaned in frustration and First Aid held him close, murmuring soothingly.  From over First Aid’s back, Blades could see Air Raid sitting and watching them curiously from his berth.  Wonderful.  Blades the basket case, he thought, only First Aid caught the thought and grabbed it and squashed it before it could settle in. 

//You are  _not_  a basket case.  Overreacting, perhaps, but you’re not crazy//  Blades could hear First Aid’s thoughts darting, still a little fuzzy from recharge and being ill, but too fast to follow.  //Let’s try this.  You stay here with me, and let Ratchet uplink, and then you can be sure//  Blades wasn’t certain (he had  _powered up his weapons at Ratchet_ , and he was still alive, he thought a little incredulously).  First Aid was afraid but unwavering. He was sure he could do this.  //I’m a _medic_ , Blades.  I  _have_  to be able to do this// so Blades wrapped their minds securely together while First Aid wrapped his arms securely around Blades and told Ratchet to go ahead.  

“You’re sure about this?”  Ratchet asked, and First Aid nodded, patient, but beginning to be a little tired of it.  Yes, yes, he was sure already!  Ratchet looked wary, but handed his uplink cable to First Aid, and First Aid carefully not-thinking-about-it plugged it in to one of the undamaged ports on his other side.  Blades felt Ratchet pushing lightly at First Aid’s firewalls, testing for gaps, making sure they were leaky where they were supposed to be and solid everywhere else. 

Blades’ spark was pounding again, but First Aid kept thinking at him //we’re fine, we’re fine, he’s not going to go anywhere he’s not supposed to, and it’s a good thing you’re here because I can’t worry about what Ratchet’s doing when I’m so busy keeping you calm, see he’s almost done and we’re fine//  

Ratchet disconnected and gave First Aid a pat on the shoulder.  “Firewalls are back up to full strength.  Everything looks good.  Good job, Aid.” 

“There, see that wasn’t so bad,” First Aid said, and Blades gave a shaky laugh.  Actually, yes, it had, it had been that bad, but they had done it.  He could feel First Aid’s joy and relief at their success, as well as the way his tank was trying to turn itself inside out. Blades squeezed First Aid’s hand a little so his attention went there instead, or else they would both be purging.    

“Spot, I think you dented me,” Streetwise complained, flexing the arm Hot Spot had been gripping.  

“Oops, sorry Street,” Hot Spot apologized, meeting First Aid’s knowing gaze a little sheepishly.  “Ratchet, does this mean we’re all good to leave?” 

Hot Spot was itching to go check on Silverbolt and talk some sense into him if possible, reassure Grapple they hadn’t forgotten his bridge, find out what was going to happen to the Decepticon in the brig (//Breakdown// First Aid told Blades, their minds still snugged together.  //His name is Breakdown//).  He needed to talk to Optimus, as well, about what had happened. It wouldn’t be any easier than talking to Ratchet and Wheeljack had been, but Hot Spot felt like he was ready now, and there were things Optimus needed to know.  (Motormaster.  That link with First Aid had gone both ways.  They had seen things, unimaginable and terrible things that had been done to Motormaster when he was new that had helped make him the way he was.  First Aid could not hate him properly, not even a little bit, but even he agreed that Motormaster was beyond all fixing.  He had to be kept from hurting anyone else, but there were no easy answers there, not with four other gestalt members who would likely deactivate if their commander died, no matter how much they despised him.  They were the enemy, and they weren’t nice mechs, exactly, but they had done their best to help First Aid.) 

//You can’t fix everything all at once, Hot Spot.  One thing at a time// Groove cautioned, nudging the back of Hot Spot’s leg with one foot.  They all knew it was futile; Hot Spot didn’t  _do_  one thing at a time, but they didn’t mind.  None of them would wish him otherwise.

Ratchet didn’t answer Hot Spot right away, looking at them all contemplatively.  Blades knew medically he didn’t have a reason to keep them there, except for First Aid, but trying to get First Aid to take it easy in the medbay…it just didn’t work.  They’d been down that road before.  Probably worried that he’d freak out again, too.  //Stop that// First Aid chided him.  //You are not going to freak out//    

“I’ll stay with them for awhile, Ratch,” Wheeljack offered.  “I have a few projects I need their input on anyway.” 

Ratchet narrowed his optics.  “Remote monitors.  For all of you.  Light duty only, I’ve already spoken to Prowl.  And you are all back here in two cycles so I can check you over, followed by an appointment with Smokescreen.  And as for you…” Ratchet moved to stand in front of First Aid, “I don’t care if you are suffering from severe emotional trauma, if you are in pain YOU TELL ME.  And while you are a patient in my medbay, YOU ARE A PATIENT.  You do not alter my treatments, disconnect or otherwise tamper with monitoring equipment, or turn off alarms.  Ever.  IS THAT CLEAR?”  Ratchet thundered.

Wheeljack was watching Blades with a concerned expression, but he needn’t have worried; Blades was totally in agreement with Ratchet.  First Aid had tried to hide that he was hurting from them, too.  Besides, Ratchet wouldn’t yell at First Aid like that unless First Aid was definitely ok.   

“Yes, Ratchet,” First Aid nodded meekly.  “I’m sorry.  Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Hmph.”  Ratchet stared hard at First Aid a little longer, his optics suspiciously bright.  “Berth rest.  You are out of commission until I say otherwise.  Half a cube of low grade every joor; if it doesn’t stay down give me a call and I’ll put you on a drip.  Keep an optic on your core temperature.  Anything so much as twinges and you call me.”  They all nodded dutifully, and Ratchet, apparently satisfied, started attaching the remote monitors.  They filed past Air Raid on their way out and Ratchet tapped him sharply on the helm.

“You too.  Out.”  Air Raid didn’t have to be told twice.  He scrambled to his feet and caught up to Blades, relieved to have escaped a lecture.  Skydive, Slingshot, and Fireflight were waiting just outside the door.  They greeted their wingmate joyfully, and then Fireflight had to give First Aid a Very Shiny Rock from his collection. (//Silicon dioxide// Groove supplied to the rest of them, smiling at Fireflight gently.)  It was translucent pink, with murky shapes inside that Fireflight said were supposed to look like First Aid’s medical insignia. Blades was impressed; Fireflight didn’t share his rocks with just anyone.  First Aid and Groove and Wheeljack admired it extensively while Fireflight beamed. 

Air Raid was talking to Slingshot and Skydive, and Blades tuned up his audios when he heard his name mentioned.

“…weapons at Ratchet!  It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen you guys.  And Ratchet didn’t do anything!”

“Whoa, no way.”  The look Skydive was giving Blades was almost…awestruck…and Blades straightened and tried to look nonchalant.  No big deal.  Sure, the Aerialbots might be afraid of Ratchet (they were a bunch of big wimps, seriously) but not him.  Streetwise snickered a little, and Blades deflated.  Ok, so he  _still_  couldn’t believe what he had done.  That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy his moment of glory though, he decided, giving Slingshot a deliberately disinterested glance.  Yeah, that’s right flyboy.  Match that. 

“Grimlock’s here,” Slingshot was saying to Air Raid, and everyone turned to look at him.

“Grimlock,” Hot Spot murmured, exchanging troubled glances with the rest of the team. They’d met Grimlock before, sort of, nearly a half vorn ago when he and the rest of his team had declared their intention to leave the Autobots and fight the Decepticons on their own. 

//What’s  _he_  doing back here?// Blades wondered, frowning. //He wasn’t very nice to Optimus// 

//Swoop was nice though// Groove countered. //He took me for a ride, remember?//

//I’ll find out what’s going on// Hot Spot told them, adding it to his list, though they could already hear Streetwise’s processor humming with the information, making connections and leaping to answers faster than they could follow.

 //It’s something to do with what happened// he sent. //I’m pretty sure//

Wheeljack looked over at First Aid as his visor flickered.

“You are not to worry about it,” Wheeljack said sternly, guessing First Aid’s thoughts even without the gestalt bond. “Or anything else, not for awhile. Your job is to rest and get better.” First Aid sighed. 

Hot Spot was also looking down at First Aid, frowning a little.  Enough of this dilly dallying, he was thinking, noticing the way First Aid was surreptitiously leaning against the wall behind him.  Blades went and scooped him up, careful not to knock Fireflight’s shiny rock out of his hand.  Oof.  First Aid wasn’t especially big, but he was dense.  //Neutron star// he teased.

“Hey, I can walk,” First Aid protested, as they started down the corridor to their quarters.

“Sure you can,” Blades agreed, not putting him down, “and I can carry you.”     


End file.
